The Meaning of Sacrifice
by Peaceful Defender
Summary: The Sherlockians and members of a site called "Fan Fiction" released a tape which showed the truth about Reichenbach, causing Moriarty to return to play another game against John and company, as his web is being destroyed by a mysterious vigilante called "The Raven." Meanwhile, Sherlock has returned with a new ally and more reasons than ever to stop Moriarty. First story ever!
1. Prologue

**Prologue: Two Graves**

"Woman is the only creature in nature that hunts down its hunters and devours the prey alive." Abraham Miller, Unmoral Maxims

**_May 6th. Two days after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._**

The woman watched the gathering summer storm from the window of her humble yet comfortable home, apparently lost in her own thoughts. Her strange brown eyes, the color of cinnamon, had minute tints of gold, and they reflected the lightning just as surely as the howling wind reflected the violent stirrings of her own soul.

The woman used to be very beautiful. _Once._ She supposed that she still retained some of her former vibrance, but the years of running and stress had taken their toll on her once flawless features and perfect health. Her face carried the strain of a lifetime of loss and worry, just as her hands were covered with the invisible blood of countless people that she had killed over the years.

Now, sorrow added new lines to her face, and her eyes were slightly tinged from weeping. The reason behind her distress was reflected in the headlines of the crumpled "London Times" at her feet.

_ Sherlock Holmes was dead._

No matter how many times she read the newspaper headlines or the articles posted on the internet, she still could not completely believe it.

_ How could Sherlock be dead? _ He was like her, a flame that burned without reserve, untamed by moral conventions, heedless to the obstacles around it.

_ But even a mighty flame can be extinguished…_

The woman shook her head angrily and balled her fists, but refrained from punching one of the walls, as much as she wanted to.

She was an intelligent woman. She could read between the lines and figure out exactly what had happened. Unlike most of the people reading the stories, she had a unique insight into the players.

Many years ago, she had personally known Sherlock Holmes. Not the cold machine that hid his feelings from the world, but the _real_ Sherlock.

The man who knew what it was like to be different, misunderstood, constantly trying to blend in when you knew deep down that you never could. The only one outside her own family who could _see_ in a way no one else could.

The man who saved her life, and made it worth living, even though he himself did not know it.

He deserved better!

Unconsciously, the woman shivered, suddenly chilled to the bone. She used her hands to rub the warmth back into her arms, only to feel the tell-tale scars left behind from years of self-mutilation.

It had been a long time since she picked up a razor and felt the sweet release of her psychological pain leak out of her, just as easily as the blood flowed from her wounds. The last time was almost eight years ago, when she first set foot in London.

Since then, she had discovered other ways of dealing with her mental anguish. Less destructive ways, as she could no longer afford to be careless with her health.

_ But, oh, to escape the pain… _

With a low growl that resonated within her throat, the woman turned away from her window and flopped into a nearby chair. She should not focus on her grief. There was nothing she could do about it, so why bother?

And cutting herself, even after so many years, would avail her nothing in the long run but more scars on the underside of her arms. While the release of the pain was wonderful at the time, the emotional agony always came back a few hours later, further compounded by her guilt and anger of her own stupidity and delusion.

And she was powerless against grief.

However, she _could_ do something about her desire for vengeance.

And she knew who was responsible for Sherlock's demise.

_ Jim Moriarty._

Unlike most of the deluded populous, she knew that Moriarty was real, and that the persona of Richard Brooks was nothing more than a work of fiction, as was the other falsehoods, half-truths, and outright lies about the life and death of Sherlock Holmes.

She knew all about lies. She herself had been running from the self-proclaimed criminal consultant and his network for years, always under assumed names and always looking behind her shoulder in constant fear.

Her entire survival was based on a lie.

Before she had read the headlines, she had hoped for nothing more than to live out the rest of her existence in safety. Was that so much to ask?

But now, circumstances have changed. Because there was no such thing as true safety. Not anymore. The life she had created for herself was an illusion, nothing more. Ready to be destroyed by a sniper's bullet at any moment.

_ She was tired of hiding._

She, of course, had watched Sherlock's life from afar, from reading the papers she had specially delivered to her and lately from reading the blog of that doctor friend of his. She knew Sherlock considered himself a consulting detective, just as she knew that Jimmy considered himself to be the consulting criminal.

But neither man had a monopoly of the title "consulting." After all, wasn't she the self-proclaimed _consulting vigilante_, who helped selected clients of hers track down those who did them wrong so that they may taste justice that the world often denied them? For years she had engaged in her business of hiding people, as well as "disposing" a few of Jimmy's employees when they became a direct threat to herself or her clients.

So why shouldn't _she_ do the same?

Outside, the lightning danced across the grey sky, followed by thunder that threatened to shake the house. Unperturbed, the woman picked up the cell phone that was positioned on the table beside her chair and dialed a secured number that she had committed to memory.

The phone rang once, then again, before someone picked up on the other line.

"Hello?"

Unconsciously, the woman's left hand causally grazed the scar on the left side of her chest, a physical reminder of one of her run-ins with Moriarty.

"It's me!" She said without preamble. "Listen. I have a job for you."

"Ah, a business call then! What are we doing _this_ time?" The unidentified person asked. "Which client is this hit for? Or are we relocating someone?"

The woman paused. Did she really want to do this?

_ Do I really have a choice?_

"This time, I'm my own client."

The person on the other line fell mute for a moment, but only for a moment. "I had a feeling this was coming!"

"I take it you heard the news." The woman said stoically, pointedly ignoring her friend's comment.

"About Mr. Holmes? I have. You have my condolences, Dani." The person said respectfully.

"I don't need condolences." The woman known as "Dani" said. Her voice was polite, masking the cold fire within. "What I want is revenge. Or justice. Depends on how one views it. But it amounts to the same end!"

The person on the other line paused. "What are you talking about? What good will that do? You remember the reason why you are in hiding…"

"I am well aware of that! You needn't remind me. I _know_! But circumstances have changed. It is time to do what I must. While I still can!" Dani said solemnly, glancing back at the storm clouds outside.

The person on the other line gasped, and then spoke in a hushed tone, as though fearful of being overheard. "Don't be stupid! It's not just _your_ life that you are risking…"

Dani growled impatiently. "I am aware of that! You don't need to tell me anything I don't already know! I know what the consequences and risks are, especially if I lose!"

"Then why…"

Dani bit her lip to keep from screaming profanities at the person on the other line. "Chelsea, I don't have a choice! Soon, I won't have anywhere to run to!"

The person on the other line, Chelsea, paused again, no doubt trying to find the right words. "Are you going to contact Mycroft Holmes about…you know? The _other matter_?"

Dani frowned as she rubbed her left hand through her red hair. After years of dying it different colors, she was finally allowing it to stay its normal rose-colored shade. Her eyes narrowed as she pondered Chelsea's question. "I don't know yet. Probably not! There is too much of a risk. One of Jimmy's operatives already works for the British Government. Maybe more. And the last time I tried to warn Mycroft Holmes about Jimmy, he didn't listen to me!"

"I bet he wishes he did now! But what about her? Does _she_ know…?" Chelsea asked softly, almost sympathetically.

Dani fought back a sob. "No. I...I haven't told her! I'm not sure if I can! She doesn't even know I'm planning on going after Moriarty yet!"

"I see." Chelsea whispered on the other line. Her professional tone betrayed no emotion, but the woman could almost hear her friend shake her head in disapproval.

_ Not that she cared at the moment._

"Look, I know what you're thinking. I know what Moriarty did to you. What he did to me! But I _have_ to do this! I am going to take Jimmy's empire apart, piece by piece, member by member, until there is _nothing_ left! I want to exterminate any trace of its existence!" Dani said grimly.

"You _know_ you can't go after Moriarty's empire on your own!" Chelsea persisted.

Dani smiled. "When a person seeks vengeance, he must be prepared to dig two graves."

"One grave for his enemy, and one for himself." Chelsea finished the quote sullenly. "But why should you have to bury anything? Why do this _now?_ After all of this time? I know it isn't just because of Mr. Holmes!"

Dani smirked. "Think about it, Chelsea! If Jimmy can destroy Sherlock, even with Mycroft watching over him all the time, then what chance does _anyone_ have? Eventually, someone has to take a stand, or none of us will ever be safe!"

Outside, the wind started to pick up. Dani paused and watched the growing storm with interest. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "I know I will probably die soon, Chelsea. Everyone dies eventually, you know. And I can live with that. But I just want to make sure that Moriarty's dream fills one of the graves I dig. I want my sacrifice to _mean _something! Is that selfish of me, you think?"

Chelsea sighed in defeat. "No. I guess not. Figures you would get all psychological on me! And there is nothing I can say that will change your mind?"

Dani smiled, sensing victory. "Nothing! My mind is made up!"

"Very well." Chelsea conceded, resignation evident in its tone. "So, what do you want me to do?"

Dani curled back in her chair, silent elation coursing through her veins. "I need you to call our members. I want a meeting with them in exactly three days from now, at ten p.m. local time. What I am asking them to do will be extremely dangerous, both for them and for their families. So there will be no orders. I will be asking for volunteers."

"What?" Chelsea gasped. "I mean, that is certainly…_charitable_ of you. But you are the _Raven!_ You only need to issue the order!"

Dani smirked at Chelsea's use of her title. "I may be the _Raven_, Chelsea, but I am not Moriarty! I will not needlessly throw away lives just to satisfy my whims, like he does! Everyone who goes after Moriarty's web must do it of their own free will, or we risk someone turning traitor in our ranks. It will be volunteers only!"

"Well, if that is the case, then you can go ahead and mark me down as one!" Chelsea said resolutely.

Dani frowned, her forehead lined with worry. Of course, how could she forget? Some of her underlings over the years had become her closest friends, and Chelsea was no exception, having served under Dani for almost eight years. "You are under no obligation…"

"Oh, shut up! I am not doing this out of obligation! You saved _my_ life, remember? You aren't the only one looking over your shoulder, waiting for Moriarty and his assassins to pounce the second your back is turned! If we are going after them, then I want to do my part!"

Dani smirked at Chelsea's uncharacteristic outburst. Despite her posh exterior, Chelsea occasionally displayed her more emotional side. Still, it was a rare thing when she did so. "Thank you, Chelsea. But this will not become a bloodbath! I'm planning on taking out Moriarty's empire, but I'm going to do it in such a way that it will keep us all out of danger as much as possible."

"Then I'll do anything I can!" Chelsea whispered loyally through the receiver.

Now Dani _did_ cry, as silent tears began to course down her cheek. However, she kept her voice completely casual. "I know you will! Still, I want the others to decide for themselves." Dani said, causally playing with a strand of her crimson hair. "To those who don't want to take part, I plan on giving them the necessary resources so that they can disappear completely off the radar before I officially declare war on Moriarty's web. That way, no innocents will be caught in the cross fire."

"Sounds reasonable." Chelsea commented. Even from the other end of the receiver, Dani could hear the faint scratching of a pencil, and knew her friend was writing down her instructions.

"There is one other matter to consider, too. I won't be in my position of leadership for much longer, so we need to decide on who will take my place. The process will probably take several months, but we need someone to be named the new Raven. We cannot let Moriarty's web know that I am no longer going to be filling that position."

"I'll make the necessary arrangements." Chelsea promised. "I'll set up everything, and let you know after I have contacted everyone."

"Thank you, Chelsea." Dani said quietly. "I will talk to you later."

Once she completed her call, Dani sat the phone back down on its charger. She took a moment to ponder her thoughts and feelings about what lay ahead.

Having made her decision to go after Moriarty's web, she curiously felt no fear or anxiety. She had dreamed of it for so long, yet always faltered at the first step. Now, she was determined.

It would be so liberating to be on the offensive for once, after so many years underground.

_ There will be no freedom for me, or for anyone else, as long as Moriarty's empire continued to flourish._

_ It was time for someone to take a stand! Because if I don't, then who will?_

Dani smirked coldly as she considered this. Yes, who _was_ left who could stand in Moriarty's way?

The local authorities were incompetent, and easily hampered by the rules and regulations that society imposed on them.

The secret forces, sanctioned by the world's various governments, were infiltrated by several of Moriarty's employees, and had already proven themselves woefully unreliable.

The only other person who had a chance, remote as it was, of out-witting Moriarty, was now a victim of his manipulations, as were hundreds more like him.

_ There really was no one left, was there?_

But Moriarty wasn't the only one who had an empire that existed in the shadows. After all, was she not _The Raven_, the consulting vigilante and harbinger of death to her enemies? Didn't her little empire span the globe as well? While not as ambitious as Moriarty's organization, did she not also have contacts and employees hidden around the world, ready to follow her orders with unquestioned loyalty and devotion?

Was it not true that she also knew how to hide? And wasn't it a fact that she had unlimited financial resources, even though her home and meager surroundings belay that fact?

Besides, didn't she owe it to her parents, who Moriarty killed all those years ago? And not just them, but her uncles, aunts, cousins, friends? Sometimes, late at night, she could still see their faces in her dreams. Occasionally, she would still wake up in the darkest hours of the night, her family's screams still echoed in her mind.

They had not been silenced, even after all of this time.

Didn't they deserve a small measure of justice, before she finally joined them?

_ And didn't she owe it to Sherlock?_

Outside, the storm finally broke, sending torrents of rain down to batter the window panes and rooftop. The electricity of the house flickered on and off for a moment, and then the entire house went dark.

Heedless to the raging storm and the gloominess of the room, the mysterious woman began to make plans.

_ You aren't the only person who can play games, Jimmy._ Dani thought spitefully. _But unlike everyone who has played before, I will play using your own rules!_

_ You don't know it yet, but I am setting up the board for the last game!_

_ All I have to do now is find some willing players._

_Author's note: Yes! I did it! I finally had the courage to post a chapter! I wrote this story over the last two weeks after watching a rerun of the last "Sherlock" episode. I live in America, so we didn't get to see it till many months later. Still, it's a great show, and I'm hooked!_

_As if you couldn't guess, this is my first fan fiction story ever! You all write great stories, so I thought I would try it. Remember, this was all written in the space of two weeks. Two stress filled, sleep deprived weeks! So please be gentle with me and don't crush my obvious mistakes just yet! No flames, please! _

_Ok, time for obvious disclaimer. No, I do not own the show "Sherlock" or any characters therein. I only pretend to own a couple of OCs, although they would care to disagree. As of right now, both they and the Sherlock characters are chasing me down and threatening to skin me alive. If you want to know why, you need to read the rest of my story, which is almost done._

_I am not asking for much. Just one positive review, and I will continue my story. Just one! Even if it is out of pity!_

_Thanks to all of those who took the time to read through my prologue. Sincerely-Peaceful Defender._


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Whispers of a Movement**

"Justice can sleep for years and awaken when it is least expected. A miracle is nothing more than dormant justice from another time arriving to compensate those it has cruelly abandoned. Whoever knows this is willing to suffer, for he knows that nothing is in vain." Mark Helprin, _Winter's Tale_

* * *

As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the tragedy that was the fraudulent life of Sherlock Holmes had already played out in the press, most of whom had moved on to other topics.

Sure, it was still occasionally debated by co-workers at the office or by people frequenting pubs and restaurants. But it was quickly becoming old news.

For most people, the world continued to spin.

But there were still those who continued to feel the aftershocks of what happened that day.

For Kitty Riley, reporter for "The Sun", there was a chance to get additional fame. She was already writing a book about her investigation into Sherlock's life, which she had already titled, "Exposing a Fraud." An account on how she single-handedly exposed Sherlock Holmes as a con-man and possible psychopath who committed crimes so that he could solve them. She was already getting offers from several publishing companies.

Her star was on the rise, and her future never looked brighter.

* * *

For Greg Lestrade, Inspector at Scotland Yard, it was a time of angst. His wife finally left him, to run off with her new boyfriend. He was not greatly surprised by this, although the knowledge still hurt. It was sad to learn that those who professed to love and comfort you for better or for worse decided to jump ship at the first opportunity.

In addition to his woes, he was suspended without pay from the force, pending an investigation. It was a poorly concealed rumor that after the inquest was complete in a few months, Lestrade would be asked to pack up his personal belongings and leave his badge and gun behind.

Yet in many ways, Lestrade felt he deserved it. All of it. _How could he not?_ He was the one who had found Sherlock on the streets, a drug addict with a genius mind. A mind that brought many criminals to justice and saved countless innocents.

_The man was not a fraud._

And yet Lestrade committed the ultimate betrayal because he listened to his underlings. He abandoned Sherlock for the sake of the Yard.

It seemed only right that he would be deserted by the Yard too.

* * *

For Sergeant Sally Donovan, it was a time of confusion. On the one hand, she was proud to have been proven right after all this time.

Sherlock was a psychopath, a fraud, a monster, and a freak! _No one_ could be that clever and figure things out on so little evidence! And after seeing the little girl scream upon seeing Sherlock?

Well, that clinched it for her.

But at the same time, she certainly didn't want to see the man _dead._

And she _certainly_ didn't want to see Lestrade sacked.

Even worse, Greg absolutely refused to talk to her and Anderson. The way he _glared_ at them. How he refused to answer her texts, emails, or phone calls. When that _Freak_ jumped off the building, he took a piece of Lestrade with him.

_Damn that fraud!_

Then Sally started looking over the interview notes again, and a seed of doubt crept into her mind. She spoke briefly about her doubts to the new kid, Sergeant Hopkins, who had just been hired on by the Yard. He agreed with her that something wasn't right, and said that he would look into it.

She didn't feel she could confide in Anderson, as she knew he hated Sherlock. Besides, Anderson was dealing with his own problems.

* * *

For Forensics Expert Sylvia "Sil" Anderson, it was a time of reflection. He _hated_, _loathed_, and _despised_ Sherlock Holmes. There was no denying that. And he certainly wouldn't lose any sleep because Sherlock was dead.

But Anderson was also a man of pride as well. No matter how brilliant Sherlock may or may have not been, _forensics didn't lie_. The day after Sherlock's funeral, Anderson opened his files and spent every spare minute pouring through all the evidence. Every witness statement, shred of fiber, spot of blood, trace of dirt, and DNA evidence was checked and re-checked.

And then was checked again, just to be safe.

It wasn't hard to find the time, as he and his wife were _finally_ getting a divorce. Their mutual affairs had finally made them admit that their marriage was a lie and had been from the start, and for once, Anderson was tired of living the lie. So between being stuck at desk duty and no home life, Anderson had plenty of time on his hands.

He didn't speak to Donovan about his research, though. _She_ would have thought he was trying to clear the Freak.

And he wasn't!

He was just rechecking evidence, as a good forensic pathologist would do.

And Anderson came to the conclusion after the first fifty or so files that _no one_ could have fabricated that much evidence, even someone like Sherlock.

* * *

For Mycroft, it was a time of regret. Outwardly, he went about his business as though nothing affected him, but deep down, his conscious smote him.

Without meaning to, he had led to his brother's demise.

He, of course, knew his brother was not a fraud. And the idea that Sherlock killed himself out of grief? Preposterous! His little brother's stubbornness was matched only by his intelligence. As long as there was breathe in his body, Sherlock would _never_ admit defeat.

Mycroft had long deduced that somehow Moriarty had induced his brother to commit suicide, probably by threatening to kill John Watson. He could not prove it, of course, and he wished that John would speak to him, if only so that he could share his deductions and silence any doubts the doctor may harbor about Sherlock's legitimacy.

_But would that knowledge cause John to finally abandon himself to grief and despair?_

If only Sherlock had approached Mycroft and let him know what was going on! Mycroft would have helped his brother. Perhaps they could have devised a way to fake Sherlock's death and gone after Moriarty's empire.

Sometimes, at night, in those rare instances when the British Isle was safe from all threats, domestic and foreign, Mycroft pondered the situation in private. In several brief instances of whimsical hope, Mycroft entertained the notion that Sherlock did somehow survive.

But Sherlock was logical to a fault. He was a _Holmes_, after all.

Had he faked his death for the purpose of going after Moriarty's empire, Sherlock would have known that he needed resources to destroy Moriarty's criminal web. Without them, it would take almost a decade to infiltrate Moriarty's organization.

And Sherlock would not want to do that, because every moment one of Moriarty's underlings were free was one more moment that John Watson was in danger.

So Mycroft knew that his dear younger brother, whom he had wronged, was gone forever, never to return.

The worst part of it all was explaining his baby brother's death to Mummy, who still loved her sons and hoped that one day the two could be reconciled. Now, of course, it would never happen. So when Mummy broke down and cried, something she rarely did, Mycroft felt an uncharacteristic pain resonate from somewhere deep within his chest cavity. His heart, perhaps?

He, Mycroft Holmes, who had worked from the shadows and protected the interests of the government in the name of Queen and Country, had _failed_.

_And the guilt was slowly devouring him._

* * *

For Martha Hudson, it was a time of great sadness. The elderly lady viewed Sherlock as the son she never had.

So when he died…well, a part of her died with him.

Every chance she got, Mrs. Hudson would sneak into the flat in 221B Baker Street, but only when John was not there. She bravely trudged up the stairs despite the pain in her hip, and then spent hours just standing and looking around, tears streaming down her face.

Sometimes she would hold one of the things that belonged to her dear boy. The violin. The laptop. Even that dang skull that she spent so much time hiding.

The world had taken her boy from her (for that is what Sherlock was), and now she was left to mourn in silence.

If only the world saw Sherlock as she saw him. Not the cold machine or the fraud that the fools in the media made him out to be, but the lonely boy who pushed the world away because it was so much easier to do that because he was tired of being pushed away first. The brave young man who ensured that her abusive husband was put behind bars forever.

On that day, she felt she regained her life. Not only that, but Sherlock also protected her and even threw one of her attackers out of a window. _Several times._ And while his actions were a bit _extreme_, his intentions were noble.

When Sherlock died, her life was taken away from her again.

The world was cruel. The world _killed_ her boy.

_And that knowledge caused her unbearable grief._

* * *

For John Watson, it was a time of death.

What other way was there to describe it?

He would wake up late into the night, drenched in sweat and crying as he jerked into consciousness with new nightmares of Sherlock's broken form splattered all over the pavement, over and over again. By day, he would mostly stay in the flat that he shared with the most brilliant man he ever knew. Submerging himself in memories and wallowing in his pain.

He wanted to leave, but he saw the state Mrs. Hudson was in. Could he _really_ leave her alone right now?

He knew that the landlady-not-housekeeper looked on Sherlock as a son.

John understood.

In many ways, Sherlock was like a brother to him. He _couldn't _abandon Mrs. Hudson now, not yet.

Besides, Mrs. Hudson was the only other person who truly mourned Sherlock's passing with a pain that matched his own.

Others had tried to visit him, but he wouldn't bother talking to them. Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Mycroft. He slammed the door in their faces, ignored their texts, emails, and phone calls, and otherwise did everything he could to let them know they were not welcomed in his presence.

_As far as he was concerned, they could all go to hell!_

At night, when he couldn't sleep, he sometimes wondered what he would do if he came across one of them and they were in dire need of medical treatment.

_Would he provide it?_

He could only hope that he would _never_ be placed in that situation.

He knew that Lestrade was hurting like he was. And he knew that the only reason he was not being prosecuted for punching the Chief Superintendent was somehow pulled off by the intervention of one person with a "minor position" in the British Government.

But it didn't matter to him. None of it would have been necessary had they not betrayed Sherlock.

But _he_ had betrayed Sherlock as well.

After all, didn't he yell at him back at Bart's? Didn't he call him a machine? Didn't he imply that Sherlock was not human?

Did his unfeeling words finally push Sherlock over the edge?

"_I don't have friends."_ Sherlock once said. At the time, John felt hurt by the comment. But considering what ultimately happened to him, John could no longer blame Sherlock for his belief.

His own brother sold him out.

The people at the Yard betrayed him.

And John failed to protect him from his own despair.

_The despair that finally caused him to end his life._

* * *

Such was the state of things for one week after the funeral of Sherlock Holmes. Had things went the way they were supposed to, he would have become a mere footnote for most people, a disgraced fraud for others, and missed by a select few.

But there were those who believed in Sherlock Holmes.

Former clients. Readers of John's blog. Various other people that Sherlock had helped, directly or indirectly, over the years.

_And they would not let the story die_.

It was a secret movement, to be sure. But as time passed, more and more people joined.

But every movement had to have a beginning. And as with all movements, it began with one single act of defiance.

_That and several cans of spray paint._

In the early morning hours, exactly one week to the day of Sherlock's burial, the citizens of London woke up to learn that several buildings had been vandalized during the night. No one could locate the perpetrator or perpetrators of these acts, but whereas tags were a part of urban life, this incident was different because of the message itself. The luminous yellow paint practically shouted it out to all who saw it.

**"I Believe In Sherlock Holmes."**

Officials were quick to dismiss the incident as the criminal act of a single individual who cared nothing about the value of public property. But the next day more messages appeared. And then more the next day. And the day after that. And so on.

Then the messages spread to other cities. Edinburg. Manchester. Liverpool. Bristol. Cornwall. Birmingham. Camden. York. Greenwich.

There was not a day that went by where a new message was not written somewhere.

Then the messages began appearing in other locations. Paris. Oslo. Berlin. Rome. Venice. Moscow. New York City. Los Angeles. Houston. Tokyo. Hong Kong. Mexico City. Sydney. Toronto. Ontario.

With each passing day, more and more cities were added to the list.

Almost simultaneously, the internet community got involved. Several forums were created, where people could debate whether Sherlock Holmes was who he said he was, or if he was a fraud. Former clients began posting their own stories. And as more people communicated, the quicker the truth spread.

Former clients did not stop with the internet. Some began contacting newspapers to share their stories. And then several members of the media, spearheaded by investigative reporter Violet Hunter of Channel Ten News, began writing columns and doing live television debates, casting doubt on Kitty Riley and repeatedly asking about her "source."

Ms. Hunter even went so far as to track down several of Sherlock's teachers who instructed Sherlock he was young. They all told similar stories on the air about his unique powers of deduction.

As Ms. Hunter pointed out, "If you believe that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, then you have to believe he had been planning to fool the world since the age of six! _That_ seems highly unlikely. So we are left with only one other possibility. He _did_ in fact have the ability to see what we cannot. Which scenario makes more sense?"

For many people, it was the latter.

Meanwhile, the Yard found itself under attack from the most unlikely source.

The homeless population, who were often ignored and belittled by the rest of society, became outright hostile to any Yarder who dared to come in contact with them. At crime scenes, the Homeless Network, who considered Sherlock to be one of their own, would gather around and verbally harass the officers sent to investigate. Cries and shouts of "_Bastards_," "_Murderers,_" "_Traitors_," and "_Freaks_" echoed in the officers' ears as they hurried from the areas.

For some Yarders, especially Donovan, the situation was becoming unsafe, and they were thus regulated to desk duty.

As spring gave way to summer, the movement continued to grow.

Several groups began walking around London, dressed entirely in black. They called themselves "Sherlockians." Mostly teenagers and young adults, to start off with. They would gather in groups and stage protests all over the city. At Scotland Yard. At Bartholomew's Hospital. At various newspaper agencies.

It was just a few people at first, but then the groups began to grow in size and numbers.

Most officials opted to ignore the growing movement. They believed that once enough time passed, the "We Believe in Sherlock" movement would simply die down and fade away, just like all fads do. _This was just something that young people did when they decided they wanted to rebel against the status quo. It was nothing to worry about._

That decision was a mistake of unspeakable proportions.

As days became weeks, and weeks became months, a secret organization formed. Their mission was simple. _To expose the truth_. The word was discreetly sent out that something big was set to happen in London. Then more people were invited. The ranks of the organization swelled in numbers, and the rest of the world did not have the first clue.

And then, on November 4th, exactly six months to the day after Sherlock's alleged suicide, the fiction that Moriarty had worked so hard to perpetrate had completely and utterly fallen apart.

* * *

_November 4th. Six months after the fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

"So, is everything ready for tonight?" Skylar Simmons asked the people in front of her.

"Everything is set at our end," replied Nina Somoto. "My groups are set and ready to go. So far, we got almost three hundred people and counting."

"We got a problem in West London, if you can call it that." Chase Douglas said, grinning. "A whole bunch of Americans came over at the last minute. Our numbers are almost four hundred right now, enough for two or three more groups."

"Same problem in us. We have a whole bunch of people, much more than we had anticipated. Groups from Germany, Spain, Portugal, Italy, France, Russia. Hell, I even saw some people who had come all the way here from Japan, China, and even Australia!" Kenneth Duncan stated, his face ablaze with excitement.

"My teams are ready to go for now." Lawrence Duncan, Kenneth's older brother reported calmly, even though his face also betrayed the wonder he was feeling. "Over three hundred people. Probably will be closer to four hundred by the time that this is over."

"_Brilliant!_" Skylar breathed. "This is better than we could have hoped for."

Skylar paused, briefly considering exactly how she needed to state what was on her mind. "Now, remember. The purpose of this protest is to let the world know what is really going on and what happened to Sherlock. The main thing we need to do is to avoid violence. Tonight is about exposing the truth, not to indulge in acts of vengeance. The Homeless Network understands this, so they will keep order within their ranks. We must do the same as well. The minute this march becomes a riot, we lose _everything _we stand for."

The other members nodded.

They _all_ understood what was at stake tonight.

Skylar took a moment to push a strand of hair from her eyes as she considered what she would say next. A lifelong resident of London and a former member of the Homeless Network herself, Skylar Simmons was the de-facto leader of the movement and the primary architect of tonight's little "operation."

Skylar always considered herself to be "ordinary." She was a medium height and build, with long brown hair that she habitually wore in a ponytail and piercing brown eyes. The freckles that covered her cheeks and nose gave her the appearance of being younger than she actually was. All in all, there was nothing particularly striking about her or her appearance.

But after Sherlock died, she was infuriated with what the Yard and the media did to Sherlock.

_Well, she could not sit back and do nothing, now could she? _

She was one of the founding members of the "We Believe in Sherlock" movement and she discovered, to her great surprise, that she had a gift of leadership. When she spoke, people listened.

It was both an empowering and humbling experience all at once. She could only hope that she did not fail when the time came.

"But what do we do about all the late comers?" Nina muttered fitfully. "Most of them don't have the proper attire!"

Chase chuckled. "One word of advice, Nina! _Don't_ tell Americans what to wear! We may march around in the buff just to annoy you!"

Skylar grinned. The idea of a bunch of people walking around naked would _definitely_ be newsworthy. However, they needed this march to be taken seriously if they were going to achieve their goals. "_Everyone_ has to wear clothes, Chase! But as far as I'm concerned, if they are here to support us, I don't care what they wear!"

Turning back to the rest of the group, Skylar cleared her throat before continuing. "Ok, let's go over everything again."

Skylar left the table and went over to the huge map hanging on the wall depicting the various parts of London. "Chase's groups will march until they get to Scotland Yard, where they will engage in a sit-in. Tell everyone to be loud and annoying, Chase, but no violence or acts of vandalism!"

"_Loud_ and _annoying._" Chase said, counting off the requirements on his fingers. He shrugged good-naturedly. "It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it!"

"And Chase, remember you are not allowed to drink coffee." Lawrence reminded him.

Chase looked at Lawrence, shocked. "But how can I be loud and annoying without my caffeine?"

"I didn't know you needed caffeine for that!" Kenneth joked.

Skylar rolled her eyes. "Chase, the last time you drank coffee, you sang songs for thirty-three hours_. Straight!_ If you must, at least keep the coffee drinking limited to one cup."

"_Fine!_" Chase pouted. "I got it! Limit on caffeine!"

Skylar grinned before turning her attention to the raven haired woman at the table. "Nina, I want your groups to split up and have half of them meet at Buckingham Palace, while the others meet at the Parliament Building."

"No problem." Nina said, nodding once in accent.

"Kenneth, Lawrence, I want you to divide up your groups and station them outside of all the media stations. Here, here, here, here, and here." Skylar said, pointing to the stations which were marked on the map with red marker. "I also need smaller groups at each of the major newspaper buildings."

"Already done." Kenneth beamed. "We are just waiting for the party to get started."

"Good." Skylar said. She walked back to the table but remained standing. "Once night falls, we will gather at our designated locations. If we do this right, then we can focus on the next step, but not before."

"At the very least, we can force the government into going after Moriarty's organization." Nina muttered. "They won't even admit the bastard existed! _Richard Brooks!_ Ha! What a load of _crap_!"

"How about the internet group? Is that ready?" Lawrence asked, glancing at Chase.

Chase grinned and pulled out his laptop. "Our friends at the Fan Fiction website are all set! They will be ready when the time comes. No worries!"

"What about the _other_ matter? Is it still ready to go?" Kenneth asked, hazel eyes viewing Skylar quizzically.

"Almost. I actually have to talk with our man in an hour. I'm meeting him at Angelo's." Skylar replied.

"Good! I just hope he goes through with it." Nina sneered, her almond colored eyes narrowing.

"Hey, give the man a break! He could lose his job for doing this." Kenneth snapped. Unlike his older brother, Kenneth was more impulsive. "And besides, _he_ came to _us!_"

"He'll do it. I know he will." Skylar said firmly. "He's known about us and what we have been planning for a few weeks now, and none of us have been arrested yet, have we?"

"Unless they plan to ambush us tonight." Nina shot back, clearly uneasy about putting their faith in the hands of one man.

_Especially one wearing a badge._

"This is precisely why he doesn't know where we are going or how many of us are planning to participate." Skylar answered, her voice calm. "Believe me, I don't blindly trust the authorities either. Besides, he has his own reasons for wanting tonight to succeed. Don't forget that."

Nine reluctantly nodded, conceding the fact. The group stayed in a state of uncomfortable silence for a moment before Chase decided to lighten the mood.

"So, we got, what, three more hours?" Chase asked. "_I'm starving_. Who's hungry?"

"I'm sure Angelo will oblige you." Skylar said. "Why don't we all go and take a break? I'll meet you all back here at seven o'clock. We have a long night ahead, so we might as well rest up."

* * *

"Thanks for coming to see me, Stan." Skylar said. "I appreciate you taking the time."

Sergeant Stanley Hopkins gave an exasperated snort as he rolled his eyes. "After tonight, I'm sure I'll have all the time in the world I need!"

Angelo grinned at both of them. "What would you like to order, Mr. Hopkins? It is on the house today."

"What?" Hopkins exclaimed. "Oh, no! Mr. Angelo, I can't do that to you!"

"Nonsense, Mr. Hopkins." Angelo fussed as he pulled out a chair for Hopkins to sit in. "You have a very busy night planned. Best to get a full meal while you are able to, yes?"

Hopkins sighed as he settled into the chair. "Fine. I'll have some tea please. I need to look over the menu."

Angelo smiled and left the couple at the table. Hopkins picked up the menu and began reading over it. "Alright. Now…what can I eat so that I can get sick in front of millions of people tonight? Decisions, decisions!" He said sarcastically. He looked at Skylar. "What are you planning on having?"

"The fettuccine alfredo. It's my favorite." Skylar said.

"Then I guess I might as well try that." Hopkins said flatly.

Angelo appeared with Hopkins's tea and took their orders, promising to bring them the food the moment it was ready.

Hopkins watched Angelo scurry back to the kitchens. "Angelo must have really liked him. Mr. Holmes, I mean."

"He should." Skylar replied, calmly sipping her tea. "Sherlock helped Angelo many years ago, and Angelo's never forgotten it."

"Too bad I never got a chance to meet him before he was…" Hopkins trailed off.

"What? _Murdered?_" Skylar asked Hopkins, raising an eyebrow.

"Considering what happened, I guess that's the best description for it." Hopkins muttered irritably. Realizing he sounded harsh, he turned an apologetic eye to Skylar. "Sorry. I'm just nervous about tonight."

"Don't be, Stan." Skylar set her tea down. "You'll do great. I know it. And you know Violet. She's not going to grill you or anything."

"I'm not worried about that!" Hopkins sighed. "Ok, forget that! I _am_ worried, but I am doing this because you promised me that this is the only way to save Greg!"

"And this has nothing to do with exposing what really happened?" Skylar asked, her brown eyes studying Sergeant Hopkins with frank interest.

Hopkins took a deep breath. "Look, I care about the truth as much as the next person! And what happened to Holmes is nothing short of despicable, if you ask me. But Greg is caught up in the middle of all this, and he is about to lose his job!"

Hopkins paused, trying to think for best to frame his thoughts. "Look, Skylar, I _know _Lestrade. He was with my father when he was gunned down and he has always been there for me. If it wasn't for him, I may not be in the Yard today! I _owe_ him so much!"

"I know you do, Stan." Skylar said softly.

Hopkins sighed. "I know some of your group really hates him because they think he betrayed Sherlock. And I know they are hoping he gets sacked after the inquest. But he didn't have a choice!"

"Stan." Skylar replied, her voice soothing. "We have gone over all of this before. I give you my most solemn word that when this is over, Greg will still have his job. Although I can't promise that other heads won't roll." Skylar winked at Hopkins, who gave her a weak smile in return.

"But I wouldn't worry too much if I were you. I think tonight is all it's going to take. Just make sure to do your part, and let me handle the rest." Skylar finished resolutely.

Hopkins shook his head. "I must be _bloody crazy_ to have agreed to this! I should probably get committed to Bedlam! But I don't see that I have much of a choice." Hopkins smiled thinly as he raised his glass. "To tonight, then."

Skylar nodded and raised her own glass. "To tonight."

* * *

Author Note: Thank you **ravenoak21** for my first review. And thank you to all the readers who took the time to read the prologue of my story.

Disclaimer: No, I don't own "Sherlock." I don't own Fan Fiction either. If I did, I would be rich.

A few quick notes. I have no idea what day Sherlock took a nose dive off of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. So I decided to pay homage to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and make it May 4, because he (allegedly) killed off the original Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls on May 4, 1891.

As if anyone couldn't guess, I am American, and I apologize in advance for the Americanisms in my story. You will see several American OCs interacting with the "Sherlock" characters later, and some interesting commentary will result, but no offense is intended to any American or British readers. It's all in good fun!

Well, the stage is set, and the Sherlockians are planning something! Why are they preparing to take London by force? What role will Sergeant Hopkins play? And how is Fan Fiction involved?

Reviews equals chapters being posted quickly! So please review!-Peaceful Defender


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Taking It To The Streets **

"There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest." Elie Wiesel

* * *

Later that night, completely unaware of the events that were about to unfold, Dr. John Watson hobbled down the street, cane in one hand, a bag of groceries in the other.

It was a beautiful autumn night, all told. The sky was clear, and if he bothered to look up, he could see the wide expanse of stars that glistened and glowed in the inky blackness.

But the peacefulness of the night did nothing to ease the emptiness that continued to devoir John with each passing day.

It had been a miserable existence for John, living these past six months. Anyone who saw him before Sherlock's suicide would have been shocked by the changes that had come over John in such a short length of time. Instead of racing through the dangerous alleys of London, he could barely walk up the stairs without the use of his cane. He had lost weight, and his face was pale and drawn from long hours indoors.

But the physical changes were nothing compared to what John was going through mentally. He quit working at the clinic and eventually was hired as one of several part-time doctors at a privately-owned clinic located a few blocks from Baker Street.

On good days, he would drag himself to work and listen to patients go over their symptoms as he diagnosed what was wrong and prescribe the necessary treatment.

He still worked hard, of course. If anything, he _threw_ himself into his work, offering to take over shifts for the other doctors and work extra hours.

Anything to keep from going home. _Anything _to escape the memories.

But it was obvious that while he was a hard worker, John was not sociable with the other doctors. It wasn't that he was rude or obnoxious. He was just, well, _despondent._ He would rarely smile, and if he did, it was forced.

When asked about her impression of John, one of his patients had mentioned, "he looks worse off than I do."

And she was right.

If his new boss, Dr. Matthew Anstruther, was any other type of man, he probably would have tried to find out what was going on. But a few months into his new employment, Anstruther just pulled John aside and told him that he knew John was grieving. He didn't ask for who or what happened.

For that, John was grateful.

Further, Anstruther told him that if he needed to work flexible hours, then it was fine with him. John was appreciative of the elder physician's discretion and kindness in the matter, and he started to focus even more on his work.

It helped. _Somewhat._

But for all practical purposes, Dr. John Watson's soul was already dying. His body just wasn't aware of it yet.

On his off days, he would sit around the flat, not eating much and barely sleeping.

He was surrounded by reminders of his friend, and as much as he wanted to move on, to get away, he just _couldn't_. So instead he sat there, remembering past times with his friend and feeling his heart bleed a little more each day.

Yet despite the pain, it was comforting, in a sense. When people died, they usually had at least a _few people_ to mourn them. But Sherlock, who had done so much good, who _should _be missed by so many people, had been abandoned by everyone.

But John would _not_ abandon him. To run away would be like abandoning Sherlock. He abandoned Sherlock once, when he left him at Bart's hospital after receiving that stupid phone call.

And he _hated_ himself for it.

Sometimes John tormented himself by pondering the unanswered questions. Despite what everyone said, despite what _Sherlock_ had said, John knew his friend was no fraud. No one would ever convince him otherwise. _Ever!_

So why did he jump? Why did he leave him alone?

_Was Sherlock so hurt by the fact that his brother sold him out, that Scotland Yard arrested him, that John was heartless enough to call him a machine, that he no longer had any strength left to fight back?_

Sometimes, when he argued silently to himself, he imagined Sherlock's voice arguing back. His therapist, Ella, said that it was a normal mental response. That his brain was recreating Sherlock's voice so that it could deal with the grief better. That it was not a sign that he was going mad.

Although it _should_ have drove him mad!

However, after Ella assured him that it was not a sign that he was going insane, that it was merely a manifestation of his grief, John embraced it. Ella told him that eventually, it would fade. If it didn't then it was an indication of a possible delusion, or break from reality.

Although he knew that hearing Sherlock's voice in his head would seem detrimental to his mental health, he was reluctant to let it go. He wanted to make sure he never forgot Sherlock's voice. It had already been silenced long before its time.

This, more than any other reason, was incentive enough for him to stop going to see Ella.

Instead, he had decided to reach out to some of his former friends. For example, he had _finally_ started talking to Greg again, but only just recently, within the last few weeks.

Greg was going through a difficult time as well. If what he heard was true, then Greg would lose his job any day now. Like Sherlock, Scotland Yard had used Greg until he was no longer useful and then just threw him away.

Sometimes, John couldn't help but feel slightly vindictive. _Why should Greg get off any easier than Sherlock?_

At other times, he saw the haunted look behind Lestrade's aged face and was also reminded that Lestrade was being consumed by the same guilt that John was.

He had accidently ran into Anderson once, at the local pub. Except for looking unusually tired, the forensics expert had not changed much at all. At least not in appearance.

_His attitude, on the other hand… _

Instead of being snarky or insulting, Anderson actually went over to where John was sitting. In a quiet voice, Anderson told John he was sorry for his loss, much to John's irritation.

"_Why?_ It's what you wanted, wasn't it? For Sherlock to be out of your life forever?" Watson had snapped back, earning him a few looks from surrounding patrons.

"Not like that." Anderson stated, his face impassive. "I hated the man. Still do. But I never wanted to see him dead."

"God knows you and Donovan enjoyed tormenting him! Calling him a _freak!_ _And you dare to pretend to be a decent human being now?_ After he's dead! I suppose you are going to tell me that he was a fraud too, right?"

John's voice rose to a shout, but whether it was from the alcohol he consumed or the emotional turmoil he was experiencing, he didn't know. "That way people will ignore the fact that you shack up with Donovan, huh? Tell me, how's the divorce coming along?"

Anderson's nostrils flared, and he turned crimson in fury as he clinched his fists.

John hoped, no, _prayed_, that Anderson would take a swing at him.

_It would feel so good to take out his frustrations on someone, particularly this pathetic excuse for a human being!_

Anderson then took a deep breath and seemed to shake off his anger. He retreated to his calm demeanor from earlier, but his voice had an edge of steel in it. "_I don't know what to believe_! But I know that no one, not even that _pompous arse_, could have faked all the forensic evidence on all of those cases! Smart as Sherlock was, he's not smart enough to fake all that evidence, and he certainly wasn't so bloody brilliant that he could have fooled _me_!"

John was so shocked that he didn't reply. His mind became a three-ringed circus, with each ring acting simultaneously with the others.

Part of him wanted to hit Anderson for calling Sherlock a "pompous arse."

Part of him wanted to berate Anderson for daring to compare his own meager intelligence to Sherlock's own extraordinary brilliance.

But the biggest part of him just froze in shock.

_Was Anderson admitting that he doubted Sherlock was a fake?_

Before he could respond, Anderson turned around and left the pub. Leaving John with more questions.

That had been about a month ago. Since then, John had begun to take a renewed interest in what was going on around him.

He had seen the messages too, of course. "We Believe in Sherlock," "Moriarty is Real," and so on. He sometimes walked through parts of London just so he could see the walls and sidewalks covered with these messages. It made him feel better.

At one point, he spotted Raze, one of Sherlock's contacts, who gave the doctor a sly grin and a salute before finishing up his latest tag. John smirked back and moved on.

He knew he was condoning an act of vandalism, but he didn't particularly care. It wasn't _his_ duty to report crimes to the Yard, after all. They would just screw everything up, like before.

Lately he had begun to read the papers again (he had not watched the news or read a paper in months, as part of a personal boycott), so he was surprised and somewhat pleased as he read articles where former clients of Sherlock's had come out to tell their stories.

_But what did it matter?_

The majority of the world still believed the trash that the media printed. Sherlock's work, his brilliance, the very thing that made him special, was called into question and doubted.

It was good that a few kids believed in Sherlock, but John wondered if they truly believed or if they were just using Sherlock's memory as an excuse to rebel.

And _no one_ could answer the one question the plagued John and kept him up into the late hours of the night, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Not for one second did he believe Sherlock was a fraud. _But why did he jump?_ Was Moriarty holding a dark secret over him? Or was he finally tired of fighting a world that refused to give him a chance, no matter what he did?

John spent countless hours internally debating the questions, and was not getting any closer to the answers.

Suddenly, a flash of light shot out of the darkness, bringing John out of his musings. Puzzled, he looked up to the star-speckled sky, where he saw a flash of light shoot up into the air before descending slowly downward. The brilliant white light cast an errie sheen over rooftops and streets. It was followed by a several explosions of brightly colored lights.

John was confused. The first light was a flare. He knew that from his military experience.

The other lights were…_fireworks?_

Confused, he looked at his cell phone. The date read November 4th.

Exactly six months since Sherlock died.

_So what was going on with the light show?_

_ Surely it wasn't a group of Americans celebrating! Independence Day for them was on July 4__th__, not November 4__th__!_

_Was someone celebrating Guy Fawkes' Day early?_

John's confusion was further compounded when he spied another flare shoot up in the darkness, this one in another direction. It was quickly followed by several more. Around the sky, fireworks shot out into the sky, causing people to stop in the streets and look out of windows.

_What the bloody hell is going on?_

* * *

Skylar grinned as she watched the tail-like shafts of light litter the night sky. Setting aside her own flare gun, she turned back to the crowd waiting behind her.

Despite the carefully planning and secrecy that was involved, she couldn't help but be awed by her efforts. Several hundred people gathered in the street behind her. Although the majority of these people were young, she was pleased to see several groups of older people in the group. She recognized a few of them as former clients of Sherlock's.

She also spied a group belonging to the Homeless Network, and she cheerfully waved at them. They saw her and waved back.

_This is it._ She thought proudly. _This is the moment_.

_Please, God, please let me get this right!_

Taking a blow horn, she turned up the volume to address the crowd.

"We _all_ know why we are here!" The crowd gave a roar of approval. She waited for them to quiet down before she continued. "We are here tonight for many different reasons. Some of us are here to honor a man who touched our lives, using his gift for a higher calling! And for that, he was crucified by the media and labeled a fraud! And the rest of the world _bought_ it!"

"It's time they learn the truth! And I promise you that after tonight, the world _will _know the truth!"

Another burst of applause broke through the crowd. Skylar waited again, feeling the underlying excitement build up.

"Some of us are here because we know from first-hand experience that Moriarty's organization is a danger to us all! How he killed innocent people for sport! How he manipulated others! Some of us are here because we feel that the government is not doing enough to investigate the matter!"

"But as long as the world remains ignorant of Moriarty and what he is, then his organization will continue to operate. It's about time those involved were brought to justice!"

The crowd responded with cheers of approval.

"But there is one main reason why we are all here! One reason that unites us and gives us a voice! Tonight we are here because we believe that together, we can make a difference!"

"Some of you have heard the rumors that something big is going to happen tonight! Some of you came because you wanted to be a part of that! Well, I promise you all, here and now, that your time and efforts will not be in vain! _Because we will make a difference_!"

"For many months now, we have made our presence felt! But the government won't listen! They think we are just a rebel movement that will fade away to nothing if they just ignore us long enough! That they can be both blind and deaf to the truth! But they are _wrong_! We will not go away, _because we can make a difference_!"

"So tonight, remember that we stand together! Let the world remember this night! Let the government know that we will not go away! That we will not be ignored! Let our voices be heard so that they will echo for years to come! _WE WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE!_"

The crowd's excitement reached a fever pitch as they cheered and shouted.

_It's now or never._

* * *

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: What in hell?**

_Greg, Charlie here. Are you there? I need you to answer. __Please__ answer me. Let me know you're alright!_

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: ?**

_I'm here, Charlie. I take it you are texting me to tell me the reason why a mob of people are marching by my flat? _

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: Who knows?**

_I wish I knew, Greg. It's pandemonium out here! I just drove by Buckingham Palace. There are people camped outside the gates. Looks like a protest of some sort. And that's not all! There are groups at other locations as well. I'm hearing from dispatch that the biggest group has surrounded the Yard!_

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: What?**

_Is the Yard being attacked? What's going on!_

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: In re What?**

_Don't know, Greg. From what I have seen, the groups appear peaceful. I haven't seen anyone break anything yet. I'm on my way to the Yard now. Hopefully they may have more information. But are __you__ alright? Do we need to send a car your way?_

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: ?**

_No need. Thanks for asking. Be careful and keep me informed._

* * *

John could not believe what he was seeing.

Dozens, if not hundreds, of people were marching by the street corner where he stood. He watched the group, which was a mixture of people of different ages, walk by, holding up signs and banners.

The sight of so many people was overwhelming that at first he didn't focus on what the crowd was yelling, nor did he register what was written on the signs.

When he did, the realization caused silent tears to run down his face.

"_WE BELIEVE!"_

_ "Down with Moriarty!"_

_ "Sherlock was real!"_

On various signs, he read "**We Believe in Sherlock**!" "**Sherlock was Real, Richard** **Brooks was Fake**!" "**Moriarty is Real**!" "**We Believe!**"

John was so overwhelmed by the sight that he actually dropped the bag of groceries he was carrying, staring at the wide array of people who were marching in support of his friend.

_There were so many of them!_

Hundreds of people, all supporting his friend.

"Excuse me? Are you ok, Sir? No one bumped into you, did they?"

John turned to the source of the voice and found himself looking into the face of a beautiful woman about his age. Her deep azure eyes were staring intently into his, concern for him evident in her features.

"I'm fine." John said softly.

The woman looked unconvinced. "Are you sure? You're crying."

John reached up and felt his face. Sure enough, he felt tears flowing down his cheeks. He broke out into a humorless chuckle. "Sorry. The signs, I mean, I…"

The woman nodded, her eyes understanding. "Yes. I knew Sherlock Holmes too. He helped me clear my father's name, several years ago." The blonde hair woman held out her hand. "I'm Mary, by the way. Mary Morstan."

"John Watson." John replied, accepting her hand. He was secretly pleased to note she was not wearing a ring, then wondered why that should suddenly seem important to him.

Mary gasped. "John Watson? As in _the _John Watson? Sherlock's blogger and best friend?"

John cringed a little. "Guilty on all counts."

_Of course, had I not wrote those blogs, Moriarty probably never would have bothered with Sherlock at all._

Mary smiled brightly at him, undisguised admiration showing in her voice. "I can't believe it! I read your blog all the time. When you stopped writing, I thought you moved out of London. I can't _begin_ to tell you what a pleasure this is for me!"

She looked back at the marching crowd, then back at John. "Do you need help carrying these back to where you are living? I can join up with the others later."

"You are _all_ out here? For Sherlock?" John asked, glancing back at the passing crowd.

Mary nodded. "We know he's not a fraud, Mr. Watson. And we want the world to see that. At least, that is what we are hoping to accomplish." She bent down and picked up the groceries. "So, where are we going to?"

John smiled. Although the situation still felt unreal to him, his chest burned a little as he watched the continuing parade walk by, chanting loudly and proclaiming their belief in his friend_. _

_I'm not alone. _

"Forget those." John reached for the bag, noticing how the bottom of it was wet. Carefully, he dumped the entire thing into a nearby dumpster. "Just some milk and eggs, and I bet I broke those anyway." He looked back at Mary. "I don't suppose you all have room for one more person, do you?"

Mary's face lit up as though someone told her Christmas had come early. "_Yes!_ I mean, of course! Please! If you like, you can walk with me." Smiling radiantly, she extended her hand.

John took it, and together they joined the marching crowd.

* * *

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: FFC**

_Greg, you are soooo not going to believe this!_

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_What's going on, Charlie? And what does FFC stand for?_

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_I'm at the Yard. There are literally hundreds of people out here. And they are here about Sherlock! It's an army. The Freak's Fan Club!_

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_WHAT? Are you serious!_

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_You read right! They are out here because of Sherlock. The Freak's Fan Club. Go figure. _

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_It's not nice to call people names, Dimmock. Especially when they are dead. Behave or I'm not answering any more of your texts!_

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_It's __not__ my choice of words, Greg. You know I have always respected Sherlock. I would never sink that low! "The Freak's Fan Club" is what some of them are calling themselves. Probably to give Donovan and Anderson nightmares! LOL! Look on the telly if you don't believe me! Others are referring to themselves as Sherlockians. Anyway, they are all just sitting around and making noise. We arrested some of them, but more keep coming every minute. We are almost out of room in the holding cells. And that's not the worst part._

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_How can it get any worse? I turned on the telly, and there are groups all over the place!_

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_The groups are organized. They seem to have their own leaders. We arrested one, an American kid. He's in custody right now. And he has spent the last hour leading everyone else in lock-up in song! _

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_Song!_

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_According to Anderson, Scotland Yard has been treated to spirited versions of "Born To Be Wild," "War," "Brick House," "Gangsta's Paradise," "The Cell-Block Tango" from the musical Chicago, and "Bad Boys" from Inner Circle. And this was __after__ the kid was arrested! According to Anderson, the inmates really enjoyed the last three and began singing along as well. They got so loud everyone in the bottom two floors could hear them. So they moved the kid out of the holding cells. The Superintendent is about to explode over here! I haven't seen him this mad since the doctor hit him in the face!_

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_As far as I'm concerned, I hope he gets hit again! But I'm surprised about Anderson. Didn't know he was so well versed in music._

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_Neither did I. I'm surprise you recognize the songs._

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_I'm old, Charlie. Notice the gray hair! I __don't__ recognize them! Well, I do recognize a few of them. So what's going on now?_

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_That's the reason I'm contacting you. They just moved that kid into an interrogation room. He said something about wanting to talk to you and only you. Until then, he says he won't answer any of our questions. OMG! He's singing __again__! _

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_What's the song title now?_

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_Took me a minute to recognize the lyrics. Hold on. Wow, this kid's __good__! Now he's singing "We Didn't Start the Fire." Hasn't messed up the lines yet, either. You think you can come over?_

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_Will security let me in?_

**To: Lestrade**

**From: Dimmock**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_The Superintendent is screaming at everyone to find your number. Not exactly an engraved invitation, but…_

**To: Dimmock**

**From: Lestrade**

**In re: In re-FFC**

_I'm on my way._

* * *

Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who have read this so far and have decided to give it a chance. As promised, reviews equal fast posting, so I hope you like this chapter.

Perhaps I should have posted this earlier. No, I am not against any johnlock stories, but John and Sherlock are strictly bromance here. Yes, there will be some pairings in this story, but I'm going to try to stick to the canon as much as possible. So sorry for all of those who hope that Sherlock and John will be caught in a passionate kiss at some point.

Also, my characters are now starting to rebel against me, and may occasionally create some chaos in my Author's Note, so just do what I do and try to ignore them.

Disclaimer from Peaceful Defender: I don't own "Sherlock." Period! I also don't own the songs "Born To Be Wild," (Steppenwolf) "War," (Edwin Starr) "Brick House," (The Commodores) "Gangsta's Paradise," (Knight Bridge) "The Cell-Block Tango" from the musical Chicago, "Bad Boys" (Theme from the show "Cops") from Inner Circle, or "We Didn't Start the Fire!" (Billy Joel). My OC, Chase Douglas, chose what to sing, and I am sorry his choices tend to be retro.

**OC Chase Douglas**-Hey! What's wrong with my singing? The inmates loved me!

**Peaceful Defender**-Chase! Stop interrupting me, or I'll send you back to the Scotland Yard lock-up! I'm the writer, but I let you sing what you want, so shut it!

**OC Chase Douglas** (_pouts_)-Fine! So when do we get to the next chapter? I can't wait to meet You-know-who!

**Peaceful Defender**-Stop giving away the story! And I will post it if I get reviews! So if these kind readers, even one, posts a review, then you get to meet He-who-must-not-be-named-yet! So please review!


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Truth v. Fiction**

"The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple." Oscar Wilde

* * *

John had not felt this _alive_ in six months!

Except for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, he felt utterly alone in his grief, as the world seemed to swallow the lies that the media printed about his best friend. He also felt ridiculed for daring to stay loyal to the man who had took the wreckage his life had become and made him whole again.

When the world took him away, he became bitter. _Extremely bitter. _

Yet here he was now, surrounded by hundreds of people who supported Sherlock and was trying to turn public opinion back in Sherlock's favor. His leg barely bothered him as he continued to walk mile after mile through the streets of London with the beautiful Mary by his side.

As they walked on, Mary shared some things about herself. She was a teacher at an exclusive private girls school located a few blocks away from Baker Street. She also worked as a part-time tutor on weekends to earn extra money. She went to a gym twice a week for yoga and kickboxing lessons. She liked some of the same shows that John liked, particularly "Doctor Who."

She also recounted her experience with Sherlock, and how he helped her clear her father's name.

"My father was a partner in a business in India. He died when I was young, and then the business found out a lot of money went missing. An investigation was conducted, and my father was blamed." Mary told John, oblivious to the noise and action going on around them.

"I could never believe my father would do something like that, though. Everyone thought I was crazy when I tried to defend him. I asked so many people for help, but Sherlock was the only one who took time to listen. That alone was enough for me. But then he was able to prove that several of my father's junior partners had stolen the money and split it amongst themselves. My father's name was cleared, and I received a nice settlement that helped me pay my way through school."

"I remember Sherlock telling me about that case once." John remarked. "It happened a few years before I moved in with him."

Mary nodded. "I thanked him, of course. Offered to pay him for his services. But he brushed it off. Said it was not important. He was just happy that my case was 'unusual,' as he called it. Not boring." Mary shook her head sadly. "I wish now that I impressed upon him the impact he had on my life. For so many years, people would insult my father's memory and I was powerless to do anything about it."

Mary looked back at John and smiled. "But this time I won't stand by when an innocent man is slandered. That's why I'm here."

"And I thank you for it." John said sincerely. He looked out again at the crowd surrounding them and was struck by an overwhelming sense of shame. "You all are his true friends. Not me."

Mary stared at John, eyes wide. "Why would you say that?"

"If I was his best friend, then I would have done what you all have been doing these last few months, not sit around and wallowing in misery."

Mary gazed at the doctor sympathetically. "I read your blog, John. Up until the point that you stopped writing a few months ago. And you _did _defend Sherlock! You were the first person to do so."

John shook his head. "I still should have done more. Instead of moping around my flat, I should have been out here, going to the papers, doing more to convince the world that Sherlock was not a fake!"

Mary gave John a conspiratorial glance. "I'll let you in on a little secret. Only a few of us know for certain, but rumor has it that after tonight, _no one_ will doubt Sherlock!"

John stared at Mary. "What do you mean by that?"

Mary shrugged. "The leaders of this movement supposedly have something up their sleeves. No one knows what it is, but it is supposed to be something huge. Some evidence that will prove that Sherlock did not commit those crimes the media said he did."

"_What?_" John gaped. "Are you sure?"

Mary shrugged again. "As I said, it's only a rumor, but the leaders of the group have definitely promised us that something would happen that will sway public opinion." Mary's face lit up. "Let me take you to Skylar! She is one of the main organizers. If she knows anything, I'm sure she will tell you!"

"Where is this _Skylar_?" John asked.

Mary grabbed John's arm excitedly. "She's heading up our group! She will be in the front! We're almost at Scotland Yard, so when we stop there, I'll take you to her!

John nodded, the familiar excitement of the chase filling his veins. For the first time in a long time, he had a mission to fulfill. "Let's find this Skylar, then."

* * *

**To: Greg Lestrade**

**From: Mycroft Holmes**

**In re: Greetings**

_Ah, Inspector Lestrade! Good evening. I see you are about to leave your flat and are on your way to Scotland Yard. No doubt your presence is required there._

**To: Mycroft Holmes **

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**In re: !**

_Mycroft Holmes! Why am I __not__ surprised to hear from you? Don't you have something better to do? Possibly crowd control? Or how about telling secrets about your brother to a __psychopath__? Oh, and I see you have been eavesdropping on my texts. Again!_

**To: Greg Lestrade**

**From: Mycroft Holmes**

**In re: Polite**

_I deduce that you have been talking to John. And just for the record, Detective, "eavesdropping" is such an ugly term. I prefer to think of it as monitoring outside communications for purposes of protecting the national interest. Actually, I am on my way to Scotland Yard myself, and I wondered if you would care to join me._

**To: Mycroft Holmes **

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**In re: !**

_No thank you, Mr. Holmes. I can get there without your help. Besides, I am about to walk out the door._

**To: Greg Lestrade**

**From: Mycroft Holmes**

**In re: Polite**

_What a happy coincidence! As it happens, I am parked just outside your flat. _

**To: Mycroft Holmes **

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**In re: !**

_So let me guess. Is it time for my kidnapping, after six months? Where is it __this__ time? An old warehouse? Bedlam, perhaps? The graveyard? Maybe in the Tower of London? We can see if the Iron Maiden still works! Ah, how about the zoo? You can hang me over the place where they feed the lions! Put me out of my misery! _

**To: Greg Lestrade**

**From: Mycroft Holmes**

**In re: Polite**

_Such sarcasm doesn't become you, Inspector. You were never this difficult with my brother._

**To: Mycroft Holmes **

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**In re: !**

_Soon to be ex-Inspector, remember? And leave Sherlock out of this! As I recall, I didn't see __you __at the funeral! Your own brother!_

**To: Greg Lestrade**

**From: Mycroft Holmes**

**In re: Polite**

_My reasons for not attending Sherlock's funeral was due to my desire not to cause a scene between myself and John, whom harbors some hostility towards me. And as for you losing your job, I doubt it will happen now. I understand that some misinformation will soon be corrected. Come with me to Scotland Yard, Lestrade. I think that everything will become clearer in less than an hour._

**To: Mycroft Holmes **

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**In re: !**

_So __you__ know what's going on, I take it! But I'm sure you will not part with that "precious" information._

**To: Greg Lestrade**

**From: Mycroft Holmes**

**In re: Polite**

_Really, Inspector! I am as surprised as you are about what is going on. But enough questions. We need to depart now. _

**To: Mycroft Holmes **

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**In re: !**

_Do I have a choice? Wait, why am I asking that? You'll just send your ninjas to drag me out anyway! Fine! I'm coming, but consider me a prisoner of war! Hold on for a moment, then I'll be right out._

* * *

Anderson sighed heavily as he watched the screen. He and his fellow officers were watching the telly located in the break room at the Met, and every channel featured footage of what was going on around London.

**Click. _"Protestors are currently outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. While initial reports indicate that the participants have so far refrained from violent acts and destruction of property…"_**

**Click**_**.**_**_ "As you can see, a small group of protestors have gathered outside our studio…"_**

**Click. _"The biggest group of protestors, who dub themselves 'Sherlockians' have gathered outside the Scotland Yard Metropolitan Station in London, where they are demanding that police officials reopen the case of the alleged suicide of one Sherlock Holmes. As you may recall, Mr. Holmes, a former unpaid police consultant, committed suicide on May 4__th__ of this year after…"_**

**Click.** **"_Officials will not comment at this time, but warn that if the protestors fail to disperse, certain measures will be taken to ensure the public safety_…"**

"_Perfect!_" Anderson groaned. "Just what we need! I can just see the footage now! A bunch of big, bad Yarders pummeling young kids! _That_ will do wonders for our reputation!"

Donovan grunted. It was hard to tell if she was agreeing with Anderson's assessment or not.

"Hey! Stop there!" One of the other officers said, pointing to the telly.

**Click**_**.**_**_ "We at BBC News saw this man paint this message, which reads 'I Believe in Sherlock' on the outside of Angelo's Restaurant, which is an established Italian restaurant in this part of London. When we approached the man to ask why, he consented to talk to us…"_**

"Stupid bastards! That guy Angelo actually _liked_ Sherlock!" Anderson sneered.

**_"And as I am saying, Mr. Holmes was a wonderful man. He helped me many years ago when thieves robbed my store. No one else cared…"_**

"Bloody hell!" Donovan gasped. She recognized the person that was on the telly. "That _is_ Angelo! _He_ wrote the tag!"

**_"And you reporters need to see what we all know! Mr. Holmes was not a fraud! He saved me from being convicted for a crime I did not commit, even after I was arrested by those officials at the Yard! Let me tell you this! I believe in Sherlock, and that is why I paint this message on my restaurant, so that all may know!"_**

"_Soooo_. Angelo decides to vandalize his own place, huh? _Charming!_" Another officer, Sergeant Michael Baxley, stated sarcastically.

"But what if they are right?" One of the other officers, Inspector Dimmock, spoke up. "What if Sherlock wasn't a fraud?"

"Oh, _bloody hell_, Dimmock!" Baxley shot back. "He as much as admitted that he was a fraud! Why else would he jump?"

"I wouldn't be too sure, Baxley." Anderson spoke up, earning him many disbelieving glares.

"_Anderson! _Are you taking up for that _freak?_" Baxley asked dumbfounded.

"All I know is this." Anderson said, setting his coffee cup down. "I have gone through the forensic work for the last six months as part of that bloody inquest! With a fine tooth comb! And let me tell you all something, no one, not even Sherlock Holmes, is smart enough to fake the forensic evidence on _every_ single case! It's _impossible!_"

"So, what? You going to go out there and join them?" Baxley asked disgustedly.

"Oh, _sod off_, Baxley! Anderson's right!" Donovan suddenly said, making her the new recipient of the looks.

"But, _Donovan_! _You're_ the one who suspected Sherlock in the first place! You're the one who pushed for him to be arrested!" Another officer, Inspector Gregson, stated in disbelief.

"I know." Donovan said flatly. "But then I went over my interview notes with Claudette again. You know, the little girl who was kidnapped? She stated that the man who kidnapped her had dark brown eyes, almost black. She mentioned it several times in her interview."

"_So?"_ Baxley said.

"Sherlock has light-colored eyes. Very distinct. There is no way anyone would have mistaken them as brown." Anderson noted, realization creeping in. He had not told Donovan about his own investigation into the "_Sherlock Incident"_ and was surprised that she was looking into the matter too.

"But the girl identified _Sherlock_ as the man who kidnapped them!" Baxley protested. "Maybe the freak wore contacts!"

"Why would he wear contacts and not bother to disguise the rest of his face?" Dimmock retorted. "Doesn't make sense!"

"None of this matters anyway!" Baxley snorted. "The investigation is closed! If those people outside think they can pressure the Yard to reopen cases whenever they want to without any evidence, then they got another thing coming!"

"By the way, where's that kid? Chevy or Chester or something?" Inspector Gregson asked.

"Chase. His name is Chase Douglas." Donovan answered. "Still in the interrogation room. Last time I saw him, he was singing 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.'"

Dimmock laughed. "Still singing, huh? _Cheeky bugger!_"

"He's an arrogant little punk! All Americans are like that!" Baxley sneered. "I tried to question the freak, and he started to sing 'God Bless the U.S.A.' in my face!"

Anderson stared pointedly at Baxley. "_You_ were the one who originally arrested the kid, right, Baxley?"

"I sure did!" Baxley said proudly. "Bloody bastard was leading the crowd in song and causing a scene!"

"_Uh huh_." Anderson rolled his eyes. "A young kid leading others in song! _Definitely_ a reason for an arrest! But seriously, Baxley, did you _have_ to arrest the boy while he was in the middle of 'God Save the Queen'? Makes us looks unpatriotic, don't you think?" Anderson pointed out.

The rest of the officers looked at Baxley with looks of shock and disapproval.

"Baxley, _please_ tell me you didn't do that!" Dimmock moaned.

"And in front of a camera crew, too!" Anderson muttered. He never particularly liked Baxley, who had been disciplined several times by the Yard for questionable arrests, so it was good to rub it in his face a little bit.

"_Sod off, Anderson!_" Baxley shouted as he got up and stormed out of the break room, nearly running over a confused Lestrade in the process.

"What's up with Baxley?" Lestrade asked as he stepped inside the room.

Dimmock chuckled. "Let's just say he realizes that he better not interrupt anyone singing 'God Save The Queen' if he doesn't want to end up in the news!"

Lestrade smirked. "He didn't!"

"He did." Anderson confirmed, smiling. "Good to see you back, boss."

"I'm not back." Lestrade replied humorlessly. He looked around the room. "Has anyone seen Stanley? I figured he would be here."

The officers looked at each other as realization dawned on them.

_Where was Stanley Hopkins?_

He was supposed to be working tonight, and even if he wasn't, he would come to Scotland Yard anyway, just to see what he could do to help. The young man practically lived for the Yard, so it was hard to imagine any reason that he would not be there.

"I'll try to contact him, Greg. But you better get in there and talk to that kid before the Superintendent has a heart attack." Dimmock said.

"Thanks, Charlie! Let me know if you get in touch with him." Lestrade said stiffly.

Without another word, he walked out of the room, promptly ignoring the stricken looks on Anderson's and Donovan's faces.

* * *

Lestrade found Mycroft at the officers' witness interrogation room, where he had left him upon arriving at the Yard. The imposing government official stared impassively at the prisoner in the next room, seemingly ignoring his own surroundings.

Lestrade walked over and stood side by side with Mycroft, taking the chance to learn everything he could before going in and talking to the young man.

Although he knew he should be focusing on the task at hand, Lestrade had a hard time of not staring at the governement official beside him. Mostly because he was surprised at the changes that had occurred to Mycroft since he had seen him six months ago. His face was still imposing, and he still wore his habitual tailored suits, complete with shoes made of the finest Italian leather.

_And, of course, he insisted on carrying that ridiculous umbrella around!_

But he seemed more circumventive and less menacing than before. His legendary ice-blue eyes seemed less menacing. Also, surprisingly, he seemed to have lost about ten pounds since Lestrade saw him last.

Lestrade figured that the "Ice Man" would carry on as usual after his brother's suicide, be unchanged and unaffected, but now it appeared that he was mistakened in that belief.

Mycroft Holmes, it seems_, did_ care about his brother.

_Should have thought about before, the stupid prat! _

Lestrade shook his head and took his focus off of Mycroft and onto the suspect in the other room. _Focus on the case._

First, how does he approach the suspect? Does he threaten? Should he pretend to be his friend? Usually, he could tell by how the suspect reacts when he is on his own in the interrogation room for some time.

The suspect in question was a young man. Late teens to early twenties. Light brown hair streaked with blond. Tall and skinny, but with an athletic build, like that of a track athelete. His skin was tanned, showing that wherever he was from, he spent many hours outdoors.

Lestrade had been in this position before. He had viewed many people in the interrogation room. Some would cry. Some would fidget and shift uncomfortably in their chairs. Some would start shouting and throw things around the room. Some would even fall asleep.

But never, in all his years in law enforcement, did he ever see a person react to being arrested by singing his bloody head off!

**"_You can trust me!" _**

**"_For I mean it! " _**

**"_I shall keep a watchful eye upon you alllll!_"**

The young man, whom Lestrade learned went by the name of Chase Douglas, was singing to the top of his lungs while sitting in his chair, waving his arms as though he was leading an orchestra. His eyes were slightly unfocused, as though he was under the influence of something, even though several sobriety tests turned up nothing in his system. Dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt with a British flag on it, the kid certainly didn't look like he was involved in some sort of criminal enterprise.

_But appearances can always be deceiving._

"Sir? I identified the song." Said Mycroft's ever-present assistant, whom Lestrade had mentally dubbed her "Not-Anthea" after his conversations with John. Lestrade had learned that this week she went by the name of "Natalie." Unlike her boss, she hadn't seemed to have changed one bit. "It's from a Broadway show in America called '_Best Little Whorehouse in Texas._' The song is called '_The Sidestep._'"

**"_OOOO! I love to dance the little sidestep!"_**

**"_Now they see me, now they don't!" _**

**"_I've come and gone!"_**

**"_And OOOOOOO I love to sweep around the wide step!"_**

**"_Cut a little swath and lead the people on__!_"**

The young man continued to belt out the lines at the top of his lungs, seemingly knowing that he had an audience behind the one-way glass.

Lestrade chuckled. "I saw the movie, many years ago! Kid seems to know it by heart." Despite everything going on, Lestrade couldn't help but find that the entire situation was rather amusing.

_This is what I was called here for! To talk to a musically inclined young man! _

_Why don't they just tape his mouth shut!_

A new thought struck Lestrade, and he decided to voice it. "Hmm. That's a good song! Maybe you should consider making that your ringtone, Mr. Holmes! '_**The Sidestep**_.' Fits you government types well! Especially the line about '_watching us._'" Lestrade said innocently, trying to keep a straight face and failing miserably.

He was awarded with a cold glare from the government official.

"Perhaps _now_ is the time for us to make our appearance, Inspector. If you would lead the way, please." Mycroft said, stepping aside to allow Lestrade through.

Lestrade nodded and went to the door that led to the room that the young man was in. He knocked on the door and then stepped in, followed closely be Mycroft, who continued to grip his umbrella in his right hand.

The young man looked curiously at his two visitors. "Any requests, gentlemen? I've drank five cups of coffee! I also had two cans of Red Bull! Just name the song! I can go all night if I have to!"

_Five cups of coffee? Two cans of Red Bull? _

_No wonder the kid was hyper! _

Lestrade kept a straight face. "Actually, we are here to talk to you, if you don't mind to stop singing for a few minutes." Lestrade took a chair and set on the opposite end of the table, while Mycroft took the remaining chair and sat beside Lestrade. "I am Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I understand you wanted to talk to me."

The boy frowned. "How do I know you're him?"

Lestrade sighed and pulled out his wallet, showing the young man his license and photo I.D. The young man took them and turned them around in his hands several times before looking at Lestrade, his eyes hopeful but still distrustful. "Looks real enough. But I'm no expert. How do I know these aren't fake?"

"Oh, _bloody hell!_" Lestrade said. "What do you want, a DNA test? Those can be faked too, you know! Look, I _am_ Inspector Lestrade! You promised my superiors that if I came, you would answer my questions. So how about it? Or, if you prefer, you can answer _his_ questions! And you will find him to be less pleasant to deal with." Lestrade said ominously, nodding toward Mycroft, who adopted a stern and menacing persona.

"And who are you?" The young man said, looking toward Mycroft with renewed interest.

"No one of great importance, I assure you." Mycroft said neutrally, although there was a slight undercurrent of snobbery in his tone. "Merely a minor representative of the British Government. But one with _considerable_ influence."

The young man studied Mycroft briefly before his mouth fell open, his eyes wide in awe. "Wait a second! You're _him_! Aren't you? Sherlock's brother! _The DMP_! Your name is Mickey or something like that, right?"

"Actually, it's _Mycroft_, Mr. Chase Brian Douglas of Los Angeles, California. I know quite a bit about you, of course. You are nineteen years old and are the son of Robert Kevin Douglas and Emma Lorene Douglas, although they were not married when you were born. You recently left the University of Southern California, and are currently working as a part-time hacker for businesses who wish to test the security of their computer systems. And yes, I am Sherlock's older brother." Mycroft said pointedly.

"_OMG!_ This is great!" Chase shouted happily, completely ignoring the fact that Mycroft knew both his name and where he was from. "All this time some people thought you were a myth! _I can't believe it!_ This is, like, the _best thing_ that has happened to me since the time I got ran over by Lady Gaga's security team! _I am in the presence of the great DMP!_"

"What does 'DMP' mean?" Lestrade asked, confused.

Chase smirked. "DMP stands for my forum's codename for him. It stands for '_Demented Mary Poppins!'_"

* * *

It took several moments for Lestrade to pull himself back together enough to continue the interrogation.

After hearing Chase's explanation, Lestrade hid his head in his hands, shaking with laughter while similtaneously trying to catch his breath. While Lestrade struggled to get control of himself, Mycroft was hammered by questions from an over-eager and excitable Chase, who appeared to view Mycroft with a regard akin to hero worship.

Fuelled by the caffeine he had consumed, Chase spoke so quickly that Mycroft couldn't get a word in edge-wise to interrupt him.

"Is it true that you kidnap people and offer to pay them in exchange for spying on your brother? How many people have you _actually_ kidnapped? Do you kidnap girls for dates? Oh, man! That would be _awesome_! I wish I could do that! But I'll probably just get arrested!"

"There are also rumors that you have an _unnatural fixation_ with your umbrella! Some people say you never let it go, that you are like Golem from 'The Lord of the Rings,' just petting your umbrella and calling it '_my precious!_' So what's the deal, man? Are you in love with your umbrella, or what? Do you call it by name? If so, what is it?"

"You know, I write stories in my free time! On this website called Fan Fiction! My latest one was about fifty uses you find for your umbrella. It's rather mature, though! It's rated 'Teen.' But I think you might like it! You might even get some ideas from it!"

"From what I heard, you also have a cute assistant who has no name running around. _Hey! Why isn't she in here?_ Is she single? I'm available, you know! Or did you kidnap her and wouldn't let her go? Hey, in a life or death situation, would you choose her or your umbrella? _Come on, man!_ My forum needs to know this stuff!"

These questions did _nothing_ to help Lestrade regain his composure!

Mycroft, for his part, continued to try to stare Chase into submission with his icy blue eyes and legendary glare that often caused world leaders to quake in fear, but Chase appeared utterly oblivious to the danger he was in.

If anything, Chase seemed ready to kiss the ground Mycroft had walked on.

"Alright, Chase! Enough games!" Lestrade said. He _tried_ to sound harsh, but he couldn't really pull it off.

_He really liked this kid!_

It wasn't every day that he saw someone be so disrespectful to Mycroft and _actually_ get away with it!

Lestrade finally managed to look serious. He tried again. "You told the officers earlier that something big was going to happen tonight. What did you mean by that? Are you and your friends out there planning to detonate a bomb or something?"

"_What?_" Chase shouted. "What the _hell_ do you think we are, terrorists or something?" Chase pouted, looking as though he was genuinely offended. "I only meant that after tonight, everyone would learn the truth about what happened to Sherlock! That's all."

"And by that enigmatic statement, I take it you mean that Sherlock was forced to jump or his friend, Dr. John Watson, would be killed by one of Moriarty's henchmen." Mycroft said quietly.

Lestrade looked over at Mycroft in shock. "_What the bloody hell are you talking about?_"

Mycroft turned an impassive stare toward Lestrade, but under the mask, Lestrade saw a hint of sadness behind his eyes. "I knew my brother very well, Inspector. The idea that he jumped because he was a fraud is preposterous, as I'm sure you would agree. He suffered from 'black moods,' but he never attempted suicide. It was never in him to do it. And once you eliminate the impossible…" Mycroft paused. "The only reason Sherlock would have jumped is if John's life was in danger. Believe me, I know."

"Well, if you knew, then why haven't you told anyone, Mycroft!" Lestrade yelled.

_How could Mycroft sit on information like this? _

_Didn't he want his brother's name cleared?_

"Because I have no actual proof, Inspector. For reasons I can't go into, we had no CCTV cameras located on top of Saint Bartholomew's roof, or I would have broadcasted the footage months ago." Mycroft said wearily. "Sherlock was always a difficult person to deal with, but never once did I want what occurred to happen. Besides, if I came forward, without reliable evidence, I would have been accused of being a fraud as well. Either that or you would have accused me of relying on my sentiments."

"_What sentiments?_ Do you Holmes men have _any_ feelings?" Lestrade muttered angrily.

"_Whoa!_ Leave the DMP alone, man!" Chase spoke up, exasperated. "Cut him some slack! Besides, you don't have to worry about anything. We Sherlockians have everything taken care of! _We_ _have the proof!_" Chase finished, a smug smile plastered on his face.

Lestrade looked at Chase in undisguised amazement. "How do you have proof?"

"Well_, I_ don't have it personally, but I have seen it with my own eyes. Apparently, no one else bothered to check to see if the hospital had their own cameras up there. Turns out, they did! Someone found the footage and brought it to us! And it shows _everything_! Moriarty admitting he was setting Sherlock up as a fraud! Moriarty telling Sherlock that if he didn't jump, he would shoot the three of you! Moriarty putting the gun to his head and…"

"_Hey, hold on a bloody minute!_" Lestrade yelled. "What do you mean, that Moriarty threatened to kill _three people_ if Sherlock didn't jump?"

Chase hesitated, his face turning completely serious for the first time. "Three people had snipers trained on them! John Watson was one. Sherlock's landlady was another. Moriarty told Sherlock that if he didn't jump, to complete the story about him being a fraud, the snipers were ordered to kill all three targets!"

Lestrade felt his world tilt out of alignment.

_How is that possible? _

He briefly doubted Sherlock (or, at least, Sherlock's sanity), but he never _truly_ believed the man was a fraud! How could he, after working so many cases with him?

For the last six months, he was haunted by the feeling that if he stood by Sherlock, then the man wouldn't have been so depressed that he would jump to his death.

But if this kid was correct, Sherlock didn't commit suicide!

He _sacrificed_ himself, to save people!

"And the third person? Who was the third?" Mycroft asked. He leaned forward toward the young man, blue eyes narrowed.

Chase looked down for a moment, all his bravado and good humor vanished like an ice castle in the sun, but it seemed to be from regret rather than any genuine fear he had of Mycroft. Finally he looked up and stared Lestrade in the eye.

"The third person was you, Lestrade. Sherlock jumped because Moriarty was going to take you out too."

* * *

Author's Note: Are things getting interesting yet? I hope so. I feel sorry for poor Lestrade, don't you? Now he knows the truth. How is he going to take it?

Disclaimer: I do not own "Sherlock." If I did, we wouldn't be waiting till 2013 at least to see what happens next! I also don't own "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds" (The Beatles), "God Bless the USA" (Lee Greenwood), or "The Sidestep" from the musical "The Best Little Whore House in Texas." Neither do I own the anthem "God Save the Queen."

**Mycroft Holmes**-Peaceful Defender, why did you refer to me as a "Demented Mary Poppins?"

**Peaceful Defender**-Hey! Don't blame me! That was Chase, not me!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Yeah, DMP! Don't you like it? I think it suits you!

**Mycroft Holmes**-The idea that I am comparable to a fictional nanny who flys around with an umbrella, commits acts that centuries ago would have had her burnt at the stake for witchcraft, and sings songs half the time is rather demeaning. And you were the one who allowed it to happen, Peaceful Defender! Mr. Douglas is your creation!

**Peaceful Defender**-Oh, sure! Let's blame the author!

**Mycroft Holmes**-I can personally assure you that any reviews you may recieve will be an outcry against the indignity you have chosen to put me through! Rest assured, there will be consequences!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Wow! _You go, DMP!_ Hey, let's _kidnap_ her! Show me how you do it! Come on! Please! Please! Please! Please! _Please!_

**Peaceful Defender**-And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what results when someone writes a story without sleeping! Hope you have enjoyed it so far! Please review, even if it is to agree with Mycroft!


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Painful Revelations**

"The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it." Flannery O'Connor

* * *

"_What do you mean Chase got arrested!_" Skylar yelled, her brown eyes wide with alarm.

"Just what I said, Skylar." Bridgett Jenkins said. Her navy blue eyes widened slightly. "He was singing 'God Save the Queen' when this guy from the Yard came over, handcuffed him, and took him inside! Must still be singing, too! Saw him down three cups from Starbucks."

"You mean he drank _coffee!_?" Skylar moaned. "_Bullocks! _ He will be singing for a _week!_ But what about the people waiting on the internet?" Skylar asked worriedly. "Chase was supposed to send the signal, or they won't know when to act!"

Bridgett grinned for the first time. "Chase already thought about that! _See!_ He gave me his computer!" Bridgett reached into her backpack and withdrew Chase's laptop. "He said all we have to do is connect to the net, go to the Fan Fiction website, and download this file right here!" Bridgett pointed to the file icon at the bottom of the screen. "The Fan Fiction members will take care of the rest!"

Skylar sighed in relief, then looked at her watch. "Set it up. We only got five minutes till ten o'clock."

"Skylar! _Skylar Simmons_!" Someone yelled through the throngs of the crowd that was camped outside the New Scotland Yard's headquarters.

"Who is that?" Asked a fellow "Sherlockian," whose name was Catalina Perez. Her warm chocolate eyes gazed at the source of the shout with curiosity.

Skylar squinted through the darkness, then her eyes widened with surprise. "That's Mary Morstan. My tutor."

Bridgett crinkled her nose, as she was often prone to do when she was trying hard to recall something. "But who is the gent she has with her? He looks familiar."

Skylar nodded absently. She knew Mary, of course. When she decided to go back to school and complete her education, Sherlock got her in contact with Mary to help her on the week-ends with her lessons.

She had a feeling she _should _know the gentleman walking along with Mary. But for the life of her she could not place him.

"Skylar!" Mary gasped as she finally managed to free herself from the pressing crowds and to the spot where Skylar was. The unidentified gentleman followed closely behind.

"Mary?" Skylar asked. "What is it?"

Mary smiled brightly. "Skylar Simmons, I want you to meet Doctor John Watson!" Mary said proudly, staring back at the man with undisguised admiration.

"Doctor Watson? As in _the Doctor Watson?_" Catalina gasped.

The man blushed before offering his hand out to Skylar, clearly uncomfortable at having his name recognized. "Ms. Simmons. It's a pleasure and an honor to meet you! I understand that you are the driving force behind all of this."

Skylar shook the man's outstretched hand in a daze.

She had left the Homeless Network about eight months prior to Sherlock's death. Thus, she had seen John Watson only a few times from a distance, always at the side of her former employer and benefactor.

But the man she saw then was _nothing_ like the shell she saw before her now.

The John Watson in front of her had changed much after Sherlock's death. He had lost weight, and his face was a pale, sickly color, as though the poor man was suffering from an incurable disease.

_The poor man!_ _What the hell has happened to him?_

"Actually, Doctor, we met before." Skylar spoke softly. The back of her eyes burned slightly. "I used to be part of the Homeless Network."

John frowned, looking at her features before realization dawned on his face, and he snapped his fingers. "Oh course! _Sky!_ That was your name before you left the Network! I heard you have your own flat now, and a job."

Skylar shrugged, but she was happy that Doctor Watson remembered her. "I went back to school, too. Mary here has been helping me with my studies!" Skylar looked over at the blonde woman and smiled before turning back to the Doctor. "Sherlock set everything up for me."

John nodded. "I see." Then he gestured around at the surrounding crowd. "Seems like you returned the favor. Mary said that you set all this up."

Skylar blushed, pleased. "Not just me! I had a lot of help!"

"Mary also said that you had something that would change how people viewed Sherlock." John said quietly. His eyes stared into Skylar's face, pleading without words that she indeed had something that would explain what happened to his friend.

Sudden realization griped Skylar, and her eyes misted over.

_Bullocks!_

After all the careful planning, all the precautions, _how could everyone have forgotten about John?_ Didn't _anyone_ stop to consider how this realization would affect him?

_How could I be so bloody stupid?_

John looked down sadly, misunderstanding her reaction. "I'm sorry! I just thought you may have had something that would have proved to the world that Sherlock was not a fraud."

"_NO!_ I mean, we _do_ have something!" Skylar protested. "We are about to show it to the world in a few minutes! _But_…" Skylar trailed off, uncertain of what to say.

"What is it?" John begged. "I need to know! PLEASE!"

Skylar hesistated. "Doctor Watson, I...I don't know what to say! I...how do I explain this?" Skylar finished, her voice hoarse with distress.

"I have always known Sherlock was real, Skylar!" John insisted. "But that doesn't change the fact that he jumped! _Please!_ Why did he tell me he was a fake? Why did he jump? _I need to know!"_

Skylar nodded, but still looked conflicted. "I'll tell you. But you better sit down." Skylar lowered herself on the stone step and scooted over, allowing John and Mary to sit down beside her.

Once everyone was situated, Skylar looked at John, sorrow and regret evident in her tone.

"Doctor Watson…"

John raised his hand. "Please, Skylar. Call me John. All my friends do."

_You may not consider me a friend after tonight._ Skylar thought, feeling sick to her stomach with dread. "_John_, a few weeks ago, someone decided to check to see if there were any security cameras at Bart's. There was. That person got a tape, and it showed what happened on the roof that day."

John's eyes went wide. "A tape?"

Skylar nodded. "The person who found it should be on the news just about…" Skylar glanced down at her watch. "_Now._"

* * *

"We interrupt your news coverage for this exclusive which will only be seen here at Channel Ten News!"

The polished newswoman addressed the cameras with the practiced grace of a true professional. Her coppery hair, which she wore in a bun, accentuated her high cheekbones and heart-shaped face. Her velvety bluish-purple eyes stared into the camera.

If she was nervous, it was impossible to tell from her expression.

"Good evening, London! I'm Violet Hunter. Tonight, we at Channel Ten News have new information concerning the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of former police consultant Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The investigation into the death of Mr. Holmes was officially closed by the London Metropolitan Police Force a few days after May 4th of this year. The cause of death was ruled as a suicide."

"However, we at Channel Ten have uncovered new evidence that shows that Mr. Holmes was, in fact, the victim of a homicide. Further, you will hear information showing that at least one official and possibly members of the media were involved in a smear campaign to slander Mr. Holmes and cover up the circumstances of his death."

"With me tonight is Sergeant Stanley Hopkins of the London Metropolitan Police Department." Ms. Hunter turned to the person sitting beside her as the camera angle widened to show the viewers her guest. "Sergeant Hopkins, thank you for being with us tonight!"

"Thank you for having me, Ms. Hunter." The young man replied. Beads of sweat appeared on his bronze skin, and his brown eyes were wide with apprehension. He was fidgeted nervously in his seat.

Unlike Ms. Hunter, he clearly _wasn't_ comfortable around a camera.

"Mr. Hopkins, despite your department closing the case, you decided to conduct your own investigation as to what happened on May 4th, correct?" Violet asked.

Hopkins nodded. "I decided to re-open the case to see what I could learn."

Violet leaned forward. "Tell us what you found out."

Hopkins gulped visibly before looking straight into the camera. "About a month ago, I went back to the roof at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, where Mr. Holmes was alleged to have jumped to his death. I was already uneasy about the case, because there were too many unanswered questions."

"And what questions were those, Mr. Hopkins?" Ms. Hunter questioned gently.

"Several things." Hopkins muttered. "First, Mr. Holmes was accused of kidnapping those two children. At the time, there seemed to be enough circumstantial evidence to support his arrest." Hopkins paused before continuing. "However, upon closer inspection of the physical evidence, I doubted that Mr. Holmes was ever involved."

"And what evidence is that?" Violet prompted. She was used to dealing with nervous people during live televised interviews, and even after several practice runs, she knew the Sergeant Hopkins was still extremely nervous about being in the public eye. So she tried to help out as much as she could by asking simple questions.

Hopkins took a deep breath. "First, the shoeprints at the scene. They were too small as to have come from Mr. Holmes. Second, after going over the victim's testimony, one of my fellow officers observed other inconsistencies as well. For example, the little girl who was kidnapped insisted that her kidnapper had dark brown eyes. If you look at Mr. Holmes' eyes, you would see that they are an unusual light blue shade. Finally, none of Mr. Holmes' prints or DNA was found at the scene, although our forensic expert did uncover two unidentified DNA sources. Neither of them matched Mr. Holmes or any of his known associates."

"So you doubted that Mr. Holmes was involved in the kidnapping?"

Hopkins nodded. "That's right. So I went back to the scene of his death, where I found out that there was a security camera on top of the roof at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, which was installed there by the hospital for security reasons. Apparently, in all the excitement, no one bothered to check it. I managed to locate the tape for May 4th. Upon viewing the tape, I immediately took it to Chief Superintendent of Scotland Yard so that he could see it."

"And what did he do with the tape?" Ms. Hunter asked, leaning forward in her chair.

Hopkins shook his head in disbelief. "He took the tape and then broke it. Right in front of me! Told me that the investigation into Mr. Holmes's death was over. He said that we at the Yard needed to stick together and not risk everything for the sake of one civilian with too much time on his hands! He said I was a young officer with a bright future, and that I didn't want to jeopardize that! He also told me to mind my own business or I would lose my job!"

"And what was on the tape, Mr. Hopkins?" Ms. Hunter prompted gently.

Hopkins swallowed visibly before continuing. "It showed what really happened that day! Instead of committing suicide, Mr. Holmes was _forced_ to jump, under duress!"

"And do you have proof of this?" Ms. Hunter asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Hopkins nodded. "The tape I gave to the Superintendent was just a copy. I kept the original, just in case. I also made more copies, just to be sure that one would survive in case something happened to me. I gave your studio the original."

"And we have it right here!" Ms. Hunter said triumphantly. "We will soon broadcast it for our viewers at home! However, I should warn everyone that the footage is rather graphic, with scenes of death and violence. Viewer discretion is advised and strongly encouraged. But before we play it, would you please tell our viewers why you have chosen to come forward?"

Hopkins stared forward, a haunted look in his eyes. "I watched that tape several times, and I feel worse every time I see it! No one deserved what happened to Mr. Holmes. _No one!_" Hopkins emphasized significantly before continuing. "He was no fraud! If anything, he was a hero! You'll see what I mean after you watch it!"

"So you are doing this for Mr. Holmes's family and friends, who no doubt have been hurt by the irresponsible reporting by some of the members of the media?" Ms. Hunter said, unable to keep the smugness out of her voice.

Hopkins paused. "That's part of the reason. But there are other reasons, too. I didn't know Mr. Holmes, but I do know Inspector Lestrade. That's the inspector who consulted Mr. Holmes for his help, you know."

"The same Inspector Lestrade who is currently the subject of an official inquiry regarding his involving Mr. Holmes in police investigation." Ms. Hunter said, for the sake of her viewers.

Hopkins nodded. "Right now Lestrade is being investigated for his part in this whole mess. But I can tell you all something right now. Inspector Lestrade is the best man we have on the force! He cares more about saving lives than getting a promotion! And when he found a person willing to help with cases, he listened! I can't even begin to tell you how many lives he and Mr. Holmes saved by working together! Lestrade shouldn't be fired for trying to look out for the people of London! _He should be praised for it!_"

Hopkins' voice rose in pitch during his speech, so he breathed deeply before continuing. "That is why I'm here. Lestrade taught me that a good Yarder will put his life on the line to protect people and to stand up for what's right. But right now, that's not what the Yard is doing! So as of right now, I am officially quitting from my position at the Yard!"

Ms. Hunter's professional expression fell, revealing her shock. This was completely unexpected. "Mr. Hopkins, why do you wish to resign?"

Hopkins smirked humorlessly. "I don't think I'll wait around to get sacked for doing the right thing! I cannot, no, _I will not_ stand by while an innocent man's death is covered up while another is about to be sacked for doing everything necessary to protect other people. I refuse to work at a place where certain people's reputations are maintained at the price of hurting others!"

Empathically, Hopkins took off his badge and placed it on the floor beside his chair. By his respectful actions while handling the badge, it was evident to all the viewers watching exactly what the poor man was giving up.

Ms. Hunter looked back at the camera, her face troubled by the sudden unexpected turn of events. She had practiced the interview with Hopkins a few times before airing, but he had never once told her he was planning to resign from the Yard.

Nevertheless, she had a job to do. So she composed herself and turned to face the camera.

"We will now play the video that Mr. Hopkins has brought to us. Again, viewer discretion is advised."

* * *

"So, after Inspector Hopkins showed us the tape, we made copies." Chase said, carefully explaining the events to the attentive Mycroft and the extremely distraught Lestrade. "Inspector Hopkins should be on the news right now with the original! That's why we staged the march, to attract as much media attention as we could so that everyone will be watching when we released the footage."

"So that is where Stan is right now?" Lestrade asked.

Chase smiled. "Yep! He is doing this so that he can save your job! But we wanted to make sure the story wouldn't get buried, you know? I mean, what if it turns out that others are in league with Moriarty? Maybe even someone with the power to stop broadcast of the tape. Personally, I think that Riley chick is suspicious. So if something happened to Hopkins or the original tape, then our efforts would be wasted. So we came up with a back-up plan!" Chase continued.

"But how did you manage to contact so many people without anyone knowing? All texts and phone activity would have been monitored." Lestrade asked.

"Mr. Douglas is a hacker, Inspector." Mycroft supplied helpfully. "He is hired by companies to test for weaknesses in their security programs, and to design programs to fix them. So I imagine that he used a website that no one would think of to get the message out. Am I correct?"

Chase grinned, obviously pleased with his cleverness. "Ever heard of Fan Fiction?"

"_What?_" Lestrade asked dubiously.

"Fan Fiction is a website where people from all over the world post stories. Their stories are reviewed and shared by other members, who provide feedback." Mycroft explained. "So I take it you used your friends on the website to contact people around the world."

"You're _good_, DMP!" Chase said appreciatively. "We figured that government officials would not waste time reading all those stories to find hidden codes and messages in them! So I posted encripted messages disguised as chapters into my stories and downloaded them on the site. The members of the Fan Fiction community took care of the rest by sending out the information about tonight's march to other forums and websites."

Mycroft nodded approvingly. It was not often that this happened, but he was impressed.

He learned a few weeks ago about the Sherlockians' plans for the march, of course, but chose not to tell his superiors about it.

_After all, why should he stop a march that would be in support of his brother? _

The news about the video, however, was an unexpected but welcomed surprise, and he was impressed by the thought and secrecy involved in revealing the tape to the world.

Mycroft personally noted to himself that all of the people whose job it was to monitor internet communications failed to even consider this possibility. _Perhaps, when this is all over, he may hire one or two of these young people who came up with this ingenious system of communication._

Although it still _irritated_ him that the best government minds were outwitted by a bunch of kids and young people.

"Right now, one of my friends is currently downloading a file to Fan Fiction. It is actually a copy of the tape. Anyone who accesses the file can view it and send it anywhere! YouTube, Facebook, other fan sites, you name it!" Chase continued, smirking as he crossed his arms across his chest. "By now the tape is out on the net. I put a program on it so that it acts like a virus. Any attempts to delete the video will cause it to replicate and be sent to even more web sites! There is _no way_ to block it. _Everyone_ will see it!"

"But why would you do this?" Lestrade squeaked out, still nauseated that he had indirectly caused Sherlock to jump.

_And all this time I thought he was just a great man but was hoping for him to become a good one! _

_Seems like he was both, all along. __And I was a reason he jumped!_

"Because Moriarty's organization is still out there! One of our main members, Nina, lost her parents when Moriarty decided to blow up a building, with them in it! Just because he's dead does not mean his organization can't function! So we need to make sure that his people don't continue to work, you get it?" Chase stated, as though the answer should be obvious.

"And besides, Sherlock was _murdered!_ You're his friend, aren't you?" Chase leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "I think you would like to find the bastards involved in this and hunt them down!"

"I do." Lestrade whispered. The shock he was feeling was slowly dissolving away to grief and anger. "And I _will_, if it takes me the rest of my life!"

* * *

On November 4th, at approximately ten o'clock in the evening local standard time, the world learned the truth.

People viewing the footage obtained by Channel Ten News watched in fascination and horror as the entire drama played out on their television screens. They saw Richard Brooks, a.k.a. James Moriarty, as he gloated on the rooftop.

"_**Whoa, here we are at last, you and me, Sherlock, and our problem…the final problem."**_

_**"All my life, I've been searching for distractions. And you were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you." **_

_**"And you know what? In the end, it was easy. It was easy! And now I have to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary, just like all of them"**_

Simultaneously, members of a website called Fan Fiction began to access the latest "chapter" in a story by Chase Douglas, a.k.a. C.D. Hottie. Instead of the customary reviews, the members took the "chapter" and began posting it throughout various websites.

_**"Then how did you-"**_

_**"How did I break into the bank, to the tower, to the prison? Daylight robbery! All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it! That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever."**_

**"**_**Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it."**_

**"**_**Do it? Do…do what?" **_

"_**Oh yes, of course…my suicide."**_

The video footage was picked up by the AP and replayed by various media outlets. Elsewhere around the world, people viewed the chess battle between two geniuses, both of which had been falsely portrayed by the media before now.

_**"Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read about it in the papers, so it must be true. I love newspapers! Fairytales, and pretty grim ones too."**_

_**"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."**_

_**"Oh, just kill yourself! It's a lot less effort."**_

In the break room in Scotland Yard, several officers crowded around the telly and watched the footage. The shock on everyone's faces was evident.

_Moriarty was real, after all. __How could they all be so blind?_

_**"Whoa, ah ah…ok, let me give you a little extra incentive…your friends will die if you don't." **_

_**"John?"**_

_**"Not just John, everyone."**_

_**"Mrs. Hudson?"**_

_**"Everyone."**_

_**"Lestrade?"**_

Lestrade couldn't bring himself to watch the footage after hearing his name. But it didn't prevent him from hearing the anguish in Sherlock's voice. The surprise that Sherlock actually considered him a _friend_ warred with the all-consuming despair as the full import of Sherlock's sacrifice came bearing down on him.

_Oh, God! Why? Sherlock, why did you do it! _

_I always respected you, even when you drove me crazy, with you insulting my team and your mad schemes! But why didn't you tell me you viewed me as a friend? Why didn't you tell me? _

_And I betrayed you! _

_Oh, God! Forgive me, Sherlock!_

_**"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump."**_

_**"You can have me arrested. You can torture me, you can do anything you like with me. But nothing is going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless..."**_

_**"Unless I kill myself, complete your story."**_

_**"You got to admit, that's sexier!"**_

_**"And I die in disgrace."**_

For the first time in his life, Anderson felt pure sympathy and admiration for Sherlock. He sounded so different from the arrogant arse he always presented himself to be. He actually sounded..._human_.

He was going to jump, to save his friends' lives. To save _Greg's_ life.

_He was actually going to die for Greg._

Had someone asked him before watching the video, Anderson would have stated unequivocally that Sherlock, fraud or not, was not even _remotely_ human or capable of emotion. After watching the video, Anderson could no longer make that claim.

_Sherlock was right. I __am__ an idiot!_

_**"Sherlock, your big brother and all the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."**_

_**"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything, prepared to burn, prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in Hell, I shall not disappoint you. "**_

_**"No…you talk big...no, you're ordinary. You're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels. "**_

_**"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them!"**_

Mycroft watched the footage in impassive silence, once again giving credit to his reputation as the Ice Man. But beneath his façade, Mycroft felt a warm swelling of pride in his chest.

Despite how everything turned out, despite the fact that Sherlock's body ended up broken on the pavement, despite the inner anguish and shame Mycroft felt as he watched the evidence of his failure to protect his brother, he also couldn't help but be proud of Sherlock.

He died bravely, selflessly.

_He died as a hero._

_I only wished Father was alive to have seen this! _

_But at least Mummy will know._

_"__**No…you're not, I see, you're not ordinary. No, you're me." **_

_**"You're me...Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you. As long as I'm alive you can save your friends. You've got a way out."**_

"_**Well, good luck with that!"**_

Molly Hooper flinched as she watched the man she had known as Jim from IT put a gun to his head and squeeze the trigger. While she knew that Sherlock had faked his death, with her help, she had not heard from him in months. It was as if he had dropped off the face of the earth.

_Was he still alive? Was he watching this?_

She wished he would contact her, if only so she could tell him about all of this. When she last saw him, he looked so lost and alone, as if his heart was broken by the idea that those he cared about either despised him or mourned his death.

He had never gone into detail about what exactly happened on the roof at Bart's, so she tormented herself with various scenarios. But _never_ had she imagined anything like this.

She continued to watch the telly as Sherlock stepped on the ledge, then quietly pulled out his phone and called someone…

_**"Everything they said about me...I invented Moriarty."**_

_**"I'm a fake."**_

_**"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly...in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty, for my own purposes."**_

Sally Donovan could barely see the television screen now, on account of the tears that continued to spill from her eyes. Her vision blurred, and she sobbed uncontrollably onto Anderson's shoulder, who held her without any hint of embarrassment as he was comforting her.

_All this time!_ _I insulted him, called him a freak, a fraud, a kidnapper! I got him arrested! If it wasn't for me, Sherlock would be alive now! _

_I might as well have pushed him off the roof! _

_This is all my fault! I killed an innocent man!_

_**"I researched you. When we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."**_

_**"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" **_

Outside Scotland Yard, John watched the footage that Skylar had reluctantly let him view on the computer. Tears streamed silently down his face as he watched the video, his heart bleeding all the more when he once again heard his friend's pleas.

Once again, his friend's voice, uncharacteristically hoarse from emotion he was trying unsuccessfully to hide, echoed in his ears.

But this time was different.

This time, he knew the truth.

Sherlock had died, to _save_ him!

Beside him, Mary wrapped a comforting arm around him as she cried her own tears. The crowd, who was loud before, had become hushed now as people clustered around portable laptops and cellular phones to watch the footage.

There was not a dry eye to be found.

_**"This phone call...um...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"**_

Anyone who watched the video stared transfixed as the doomed man dropped the phone and raised his arms from his sides, as though he was about to attempt flight. Like a wingless angel.

As he plummeted off the edge and out of view of the camera, the shocked viewers were briefly united in a moment of collected sorrow as they mourned the loss of a great man.

A man who had willfully hidden the best of himself from the world.

A man who claimed he was without emotions, until they were memorialized in his last moments of earth.

His final words, spoken in a broken whisper, showed just how human he really was.

_**"Goodbye, John."**_

* * *

Author Note: I hope I captured a reasonable facimile of the tragedy presented in the "Reichenbach Fall" episode. And I hope everyone's reaction to the truth was believeable.

Disclaimer: I do not own "Sherlock." If I did, the idiots in the media and the Yard would have learned the truth during the last episode (The Reichbach Fall), so they could cry with us! I also do not own Fan Fiction!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Admit it, Peaceful Defender! You _wish_ you did!

**Peaceful Defender**-Ok! Ok! I admit it! Hey, Chase, are you crying?

**OC Chase Douglas**-(sniffs) Sorry! That last part, it was so sad! I think even the DMP is off somewhere crying, but I don't know for sure. He locked himself in his office for a bit, and won't let anyone come in.

**Peaceful Defender**-Knowing Mycroft, he's probably just planning a nuclear attack or something! But I know how the rest of them feel! _I_ cried when I wrote this! Hey, do you think anyone was offended by the fact that we used Fan Fiction to clear Sherlock's name?

**OC Chase Douglas**-I don't see why! Heck, _we_ knew the truth longer than they did! And if Fan Fiction can lead the way...well, why shouldn't we as members be proud?

**Peaceful Defender**-I know. I just hope we didn't go overboard!

**OC Chase Douglas**-By the way, didn't you see the reviews? They love me! Am I the best OC you have ever created, or what?

**Peaceful Defender**-Sorry, Chase, but there are several more OCs on the way, and a few of them are crazier than you! And don't forget the original characters, either!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Yeah, about that...what's next? I mean, the truth is out there, everyone else in this story is either crying or drowning their sorrows with booze or starting wars right about now, and I'm still locked up! So what happens next?

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, that depends on how soon I get reviews! In the meantime, I'm afraid you're stuck in lock-up for now!

**OC Chase Douglas**-What! _No!_ I'm too young and good looking to stay locked-up! Readers, please post a review and get me the hell out of here!


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: The Committee**

"It is wise to direct your anger towards problems - not people; to focus your energies on answers - not excuses." William Arthur Ward

* * *

Many things happened over the course of the next few days. Some things were expected, while others came as a surprise.

The Chief Superintendent of the London Metropolitan Police was immediately arrested on charges of destroying evidence and interfering with a police investigation. The fact that the investigation into Sherlock's death was officially closed at the time seemed to escape everyone's attention.

Twenty-four hours after he was handcuffed by his own employees, the Chief Superintendent was found dead in his cell, the victim of an apparent heart attack. Most people found the death to be "suspicious."

The pathologist assigned to the case, Dr. Molly Hooper, did a full autopsy and labeled the cause of death as "undetermined." The Superintendent did not die of natural causes, _that _much was certain, as there was no evidence of heart disease or any other sign of health problems. However, multiple toxicology tests failed to detect a poison or chemical agent that could have been responsible.

Without anyone knowing, she took many samples from the body and stored them for future reference: Skin, hair, blood, tissue, and anything else that could be stored and tested in the future. _Just in case._

After the release of the tape, reporters swarmed the residence of Ms. Kitty Riley. For several days they hounded her, day and night, trying desperately to illicit a statement from her. It was eerily similar to the times that she led the scores of reporters to hound John Watson a mere six months ago.

Only this time, _she_ was the hunted.

Then, after four days of staying inside her flat, a gunshot was heard and reported as coming from Ms. Riley's home. Officers were called to the scene.

When she didn't answer, the officers forced open the door. Inside her spacious flat, they found the body of the reporter, dead from a single gunshot wound to the head, the gun still clutched in her hand.

While searching the flat, officers found several incriminating objects, including a rubber mask, inside a vent shaft.

The rubber mask in question was fashioned so that when the wearer put it on, he looked like Sherlock. It was not a simple rubber mask that one may find at costume shops during Halloween, but a realistic looking mask comparable to those found in a Hollywood studio.

Further investigation showed that a sample of Ms. Riley's DNA, which was located in the mask, was an exact match to one of the previously unidentified samples located at the scene where the two American children were found.

There was no longer any question as to why Kitty Riley was so intent on going after Sherlock's reputation.

Immediately after concluding his interview, Stanley Hopkins had left the studios of Channel Ten and disappeared. Reporter Violet Hunter was brought in and repeated questioned by the authorities, but she continued to insist that she did not know Mr. Hopkins' current whereabouts.

A search was conducted at his flat. The officers who searched noted that some of Sergeant Hopkins' personal belongings were missing as well, suggesting that he left voluntarily and of his own free will. A missing person's report was taken out, and many members of the Yard searched for their comrade, with no success.

The death of two people and the disappearance of a third added more fuel to the proverbial fire. The day after the tape aired, Sherlock's cause of death was officially changed from "suicide" to "homicide," prompting a call for a new investigation.

But instead of dispersing, the "Sherlockians" grew in numbers. The next night, on November 5th, the Sherlockians celebrated "Guy Fawkes Day" in an unorthodox way. Instead of burning effigies of the famous "Gunpowder Plot" conspirator, Sherlockians were seen burning effigies that looked remarkably like James Moriarty.

No one _dared_ to call him "Richard Brooks" after that!

Now a force to be reckoned with, the Sherlockians made several demands to a now receptive government. The earlier inquest into Sherlock's involvement with various cases was immediately suspended. Detective Inspector Lestrade was officially reinstated to the force and was awarded back-pay as compensation during his "suspension."

Newspapers also came under the wrath of the Sherlockians. Those who had previously smeared Sherlock's reputation were particularly targeted, especially "The Sun," which had employed Kitty Riley.

Initially, only a few papers were prompt in printing apologies. Those that did not found that the sale of their papers had plummeted to numbers unknown before then. Soon, every single paper wrote lengthy articles apologizing for "irresponsible reporting," as well as for any pain and suffering felt by any of Sherlock's family and friends.

But the Sherlockians' influence had more far-reaching consequences for all involved, even though the effects were not apparent until much, much later.

Without realizing it, the Sherlockians had inadvertently shattered an uneasy truce made possible by Sherlock's death.

A war was about to be waged.

And as was always the case involving war, there were bound to be casualties.

* * *

_November 12__th__. Six months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

"John." Mary said hesitantly. "There are several men outside. They say that your presence is required."

Groaning, John lifted his head off the couch, blonde hair tousled from laying down. After learning the true circumstances of Sherlock's death, John had slipped into a state of depression comparable to the state he was in immediately following Sherlock's death.

He dimly recalled the events that happened after the airing of the infamous footage. He remembered that he cried. He was also barely able to function. He vaguely remembered being lead to a waiting taxi. He also dimly recalled being taken to an unfamiliar flat on the other side of London, a quaint little building surrounded by well-kept streets.

But John was so wrapped up in his grief, he could have been lead to an open grave and be buried alive before he realized what was happening.

It was only later, after spending two days in an almost catatonic state of depression, that he finally realized that he was a visitor in the house of his new friend, Mary Morstan. During that time, she watched over him as he slept on her couch.

Although he protested, for fear of abusing her hospitality, she begged for him to stay, if only for her sake.

"But I've got to go! What about Mrs. Hudson?" John had protested.

"Several members of our group are with her." Mary explained as she fixed a cup of tea for John. "They will make sure she is alright. Trust me. They will protect her."

And so John stayed. Partly because he was in such a state of apathy that he was unable to put up much resistance. Partly because he could not go back home just yet and be surrounded by memories of his friend.

At the way he felt right now, he may just pull out his revolver and join Sherlock into oblivion.

And part of the reason he stayed, if he was being honest with himself, was because of Mary.

Mary Morstan, with her sympathetic blue eyes and honey-blonde tresses, was unlike any woman he had met before. She did not try to make him talk about his grief the way everyone else had seemed to. Nor did she act as though he was going to shatter at any moment.

She called the school she was employed at to tell them she was taking a couple of leave days to care for a sick "friend." Thus, she had plenty of time to watch over John and assure herself that his depression did not tear him to pieces.

They received few visitors that week. Occasionally a few children and young adults would come, and Mary retreated with them into the room that functioned as her home office and study. There, she would tutor her students in a wide range of subjects.

John listened at the door occasionally and found himself admiring both Mary's skills as an educator and her patience with her pupils.

The only other visitors that came by were fellow Sherlockians, easily identifiable in their dark attire, which had suddenly became the new fashion craze in London. One of these visitors was the girl Catalina, who faithfully brought a suitcase containing some of John's clothing and other necessities on the afternoon after the footage was aired to the world. She had appeared a few times since to pass along news to Mary and give John an update on Mrs. Hudson.

"She is doing as well as can be expected." Catalina had said quietly. "Several of us are running errands for her and keeping the press from hounding her. Don't worry about a thing, Doctor. She's in good hands."

"But how is she holding up, otherwise?" John had asked anxiously.

Catalina gave John a hesitant smile. "Well, she _says_ that she is the landlady and not the cook, but she insists on feeding us all! Every day she sends us shopping so she can cook us meals while we are there. I think she is spoiling us. Some of the guys say that they may not leave, even after all of this dies down. Especially Lawrence and Kenneth. They keep telling her they never ate this well before. It makes her happy, I guess."

John couldn't help but be relieved by the fact that Mrs. Hudson had people watching out for her and helping her through her sadness, but he couldn't help but feel guilty.

It was supposed to be _his_ job, after all.

But considering his own mental state, he doubted that he could have given the poor woman much comfort.

And now, a week later, several unidentified men appeared in an unmarked black car, requesting that he accompany him to parts unknown.

John knew from experience _exactly_ who was behind this little request.

_Mycroft._

John briefly considered the consequences if he declined the invitation. Had he been at Baker Street, he would have sent a message back to Mycroft, telling him exactly where he should stuff that ever-present umbrella he always carried around. Afterwards, he would have likely been taken by force to wherever Mycroft was waiting.

And he would have made it as hard for his captors as he could.

But he _wasn't_ at Baker Street. He was at the residence of Mary Morstan. _His friend._ Even after knowing her for only a short while, he already considered her a close friend.

It was strange, making new friends so quickly after losing one.

_You would think I would have learned by now._

_John, you are allowed to have other friends, you know._ Sherlock's voice whispered to him. _You shouldn't be like me. I didn't jump just for you to waste your life mourning me._

John couldn't think of a proper retort for that.

For days he had been having silent arguments with imaginary Sherlock.

And he lost every single one of them.

"I'll come. Tell them to wait outside for me." John muttered aloud. "I just need to get my jacket."

Mary nodded, accepting his explanation without qualms. "I'll go get it." She left the sitting room and returned a moment later with John's jacket. Mrs. Hudson apparently had the foresight to pack it in the trunk that she sent over, just in case.

John walked down the steps and opened the front door. Outside were two men in identical non-descript suits. Standing beside the car was Not-Anthea, who clutched her Blackberry with one hand while she opened the car door.

"Doctor Watson. It is good to see you again."

"I wish I could say the same." John greeted her coolly. "I take it Mycroft sent you. Where am I going this time?"

"You will see once you have arrived." Not-Anthea said evasively.

"You mean once _we_ have arrived." A light voice interjected.

John turned around to see Mary had silently walked up behind him. He noted that she had a jacket draped over her arm, and realization washed over him. "Mary! What are you doing?"

"I'm going with you." Mary said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I'm afraid that is not possible." Said one of the men. "We have orders to escort Doctor Watson, and Doctor Watson only."

"I could care less what your orders are." Mary said with the condescending air of a teacher reprimanding a troublesome student. "Either I am allowed to accompany John, or the newspapers will soon get a call about a _kidnapping_. And if you believe that you can detain me here, you will find that we are being watched by _friends_."

As if on cue, five young men walked up to the flat, dressed all in black. They were all built as though they engaged in various sports. Quietly, they surrounded the car.

John didn't need to be a Holmes to figure out that these young men were Sherlockians. Thankfully, the two guards seemed to reach the same conclusion as well.

"Before you consider fighting us, I must inform you that we have members surrounding this entire area, so it is best that you allow Ms. Morstan to accompany Doctor Watson." Said one of the unidentified Sherlockians, who gave the two men in suits a sideways smirk.

John looked at Mary curiously.

Mary shrugged, looking pleased with her little display of power. "Former students of mine. They needed to get their grades up so they could continue to stay on their school's rugby team."

John smirked. It seemed as though even _teachers_ had their own network of body guards and spies these days!

During this exchange, Not-Anthea was quietly texting on her Black Berry. Now she looked up. "Ms. Morstan is allowed to accompany Dr. Watson. I suggest that we get not keep Mr. Holmes waiting."

"Good." Mary said, already sliding into the car. "Let's go, John. I can't wait to meet this Mycroft Holmes."

"I bet this will be a first for Mycroft." John muttered. "Someone who actually wants to meet him."

"I doubt that after this, he will feel that way towards me." Mary answered, a sly smile crossing her features. "My students can tell him _that!"_

* * *

This was not a typical kidnapping, as John was quick to find out. First, he and Mary were not taken to the usual abandoned building in a deserted part of London. Instead, Not-Anthea (John learned she was going by the name "Rosemary" this week) escorted Mary and John through the hushed halls of the luxurious and mysterious Diogenes Club.

Second, Mycroft had decided that a "meeting" with John alone was not enough. When John and Mary walked through the finely carved wooden doors and entered the room where Mycroft awaited their arrival, John stopped short as he observed all the people in the elegant room.

_What is all this? International Kidnapping Day?_

Mycroft was there. As always, he looked unruffled and elegant in his expensively three-piece tailored suit and his dark reddish-brown hair slicked back. He was sitting at the head of a long mahogany table and deigned to look at them impassively before nodding to "Rosemary," who took a seat on one side of the table beside her boss.

Lestrade was also there. Despite the fact that he learned that he would be keeping his job as Detective Inspector at the Yard only a few days ago, Lestrade looked horrible. His greying hair stuck out in all directions, and he looked like he aged several years since John last saw him. His eyes were red, and his half-hearted smile at John seemed forced.

Beside Lestrade was a younger man in his late twenties. Every now and then, he glanced over sympathetically at Lestrade. Although John had never met the man before today, he was so instantly familiar that John almost gasped in astonishment.

He had seen this man on the telly enough times to know who he was.

_Stanley Hopkins…_

On the other side of Hopkins huddled two figures, perhaps the _last_ two people John had expected to be there.

Anderson looked up at John and nodded curtly in greeting, but kept his jaw clenched. Like his boss, the man looked distinctly disheveled and stressed.

Sally Donovan, on the other hand, kept her eyes lowered, as though looking at John was a privilege that she was not entitled to. Her eyes were red and swollen around the edges, and her face was blotchy and drawn from prolonged periods of weeping.

On the other side of the table were several figures dressed entirely in black. John gave a smile to Skylar, who hesitantly returned it. John knew she was berating herself for failing to anticipate the impact that the footage would have on John, and she was no doubt blaming herself for re-opening old wounds. Her regret was very evident in her manner.

But John himself felt nothing but gratitude for the young lady and her allies. Without them, the rest of the world would never have learned the truth.

_Besides, how can she be blamed for hurting him? He never really healed in the first place._

Beside Skylar sat two young men in their early twenties. They were so alike in their facial features that John instinctively knew that they were related. They both had identical hazel eyes and the same reddish tint to their skin, although one man had dark brown hair cut short while the other wore his lighter, chestnut-colored locks tied back in a short ponytail.

Beside the young men was a young woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her beautiful dark eyes and sculpted face proclaimed her Asian heritage. She fidgeted impatiently in her seat, as though waiting for something to happen.

Beside her sat a young man with sandy colored hair. He gave a brief wave to Mary and John as they entered. He had an easy-going appearance that contrasted sharply with the young woman beside him.

"John, I appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to join us. Would you and Ms. Morstan care to have a seat, so we can begin?" Mycroft said causally, ignoring the tension in the air.

John nodded curtly as he took a seat on the other end of the table. Mary followed and sat down beside him, shooting a questioning glance at Skylar, who gave her a small nod.

"John, before we begin, I think some introductions are in order." Mycroft began, as though he was presiding over a meeting of visiting dignitaries. "The man sitting next to Detective Inspector Lestrade is Sergeant Stanley Hopkins."

"I know. I recognize him." John said shortly before looking at Hopkins. "Thank you, Mr. Hopkins! For coming forward. For risking your career for another. Not many people have that much _character!_" John said, darting a glare towards Anderson and Donovan.

Hopkins stared back at John. "I am truly sorry for your loss, Mr. Watson. I mean that. And I'm sorry none of us had thought to look for the tape sooner. It's seems so obvious, in hindsight."

John's smile was forced. "Sherlock once told me that it is often the simplest things that are overlooked. But I am pleased to see that you are safe. You had a lot of people worried."

"So Greg tells me." Hopkins replied, risking a sideways glance at Lestrade before continuing. "I figured that after the footage aired, my life would be in danger, or the press would hound me for awhile, so I arranged to hide in France for a few weeks. I was there for exactly five days before I was grabbed off the street by some _unsavory_ characters from MI-6."

Hopkins paused to glare at Mycroft, who stared blandly back at him. "Apparently some people don't appreciate the idea of _personal space!_" Hopkins muttered darkly.

John chuckled ruefully. "He doesn't, mate! You get used to it after the first dozen times!"

Lestrade gave a ghost of a smile to John before turning to the young man beside him. "He's right. Welcome to the club, Stan!"

"Wait! You mean he has kidnapped you _too_? I mean, before today?" Anderson asked.

"Technically speaking, Dr. Anderson, I did not 'kidnap' you and Ms. Donovan today, although it is true that I have, shall we say, _requested_ your presence once or twice in the past. However, when I sent my car around for Inspector Lestrade, the two of you chose to make a scene, thus necessitating your presence here." Mycroft said condescendingly.

Anderson shot Mycroft a calculating stare. Donovan sat dejectedly beside him, not giving any sign that she was aware of what was going on.

"Whoa, so it _is_ true!" Said the sandy haired young man. "DMP, you _rock_, man!"

"_Mr. Douglas_, I would appreciate if you kept your meaningless name designations to yourself for the time being." Mycroft said sternly.

Lestrade chuckled suddenly, earning him a glare from Mycroft.

"Oh, come on, DMP! It's not as though they aren't going to find out anyways!" The boy said casually before turning to address John. "I'm Chase Douglas. From Los Angeles, California. Computer technician, program designer, and part-time hacker. At your service." Chase gave John a salute with his left hand.

"Nina Somoto." The girl beside Chase said. Her voice and face was as expressionless as Mycroft's.

"I'm Lawrence Duncan. And this is Kenneth, my brother." Said the dark haired young man on the other side of Nina.

"We're from Manchester. Consider us professional students and troublemakers." Kenneth said, grinning. Whereas his brother was clean-cut, Kenneth looked unkempt and slightly rebellious. Yet by their postures and their manner, John could tell that the two brothers got along well.

"You have already met Ms. Skylar Simmons." Mycroft drawled from his chair. John nodded.

"I have. And I want to thank you, Ms. Simmons, for everything you have done. The same goes to Mary and the rest of you as well. I'm sorry I wasn't able to express my gratitude earlier." John said sincerely.

Skylar snorted humorlessly. "You had a lot to deal with. We understand. And it's _Skylar_."

John nodded. "Very well."

"To those of you who have not yet been introduced, the young lady accompanying John is Ms. Mary Morstan." Mycroft gestured to Mary. "She is a teacher who specializes with gifted students who are blessed with extraordinary intelligence. She was born in Liverpool, raised until her early teens in India, where her father was a partner in a large corporation…"

"It is not polite to tell a lady's secrets, Mr. Holmes." Mary said coldly. "Long story short, your brother helped me prove that lies about my father were exactly that; _lies_. I felt it only proper to return the favor."

John smirked. He liked it that Mary refused to be intimidated by Mycroft.

Despite her caring personality, she was not meek. She was an independent woman who seemed to know how to take care of herself, and he found himself admiring her more and more.

"Can we please skip the pleasantries and get to why we are all here?" Nina snapped.

"Of course, Ms. Somoto." Mycroft said. He cleared his throat before continuing. "I am planning to finish what my brother started. I am planning an initiative to take apart Moriarty's empire. By the time I'm done, I want to ensure that all involved have no safe refuge to hide, or to continue to engage in their criminal activities."

"And…what?" John said, confused. "Why tell us?"

"Because I need your help. Or your cooperation. Which is akin to the same thing, as far as this operation is concerned." Mycroft said wearily. For the first time since the meeting started, John detected a hint of sadness in Mycroft's voice. "Although Ms. Simmons and her companions had the best intentions, they inadvertently started a war."

"Last time I checked, we were already at war! With Moriarty. He's dead now. So what's the problem?" John asked skeptically.

"Because his organization still exists. As long as they are free, then your lives are still at risk!" Nina said flatly.

"According to Mr. Holmes, when we cleared Sherlock name, we ruined Moriarty's plan, which was for Sherlock to die as a fraud." Lawrence elaborated quietly. "By doing that, we put you at risk, John. You, Lestrade, and anyone else who was close to Sherlock."

"We have already seen that Moriarty's organization is still active." Chase explained. "And there are still three snipers somewhere out there that could be planning on taking you out at any time!"

"So if you go after Moriarty's organization, you expect that they will try to kill us." John said, sick realization enveloping him like early frost on spring plants.

_Will that bastard Moriarty continue to plague us, even from beyond the grave? _

_Will this nightmare ever end?_

"If you are going after them, then I want to help." Donovan spoke up, finally breaking her self-imposed silence. "I don't care what you ask me to do. If all I am good for is fetching coffee, then that's what I'll do. If you ask me to blow someone's brains out, I'll do that too!"

Her declaration earned her many disbelieving stares. Mycroft finally broke the silence.

"Ms. Donovan, while I appreciate the offer, you are an officer of the law. I cannot put you in such a position that would…"

"_Damn my position!_" Sally shouted, glaring at Mycroft. "Don't you get it? I'm a _terrible_ officer! I killed your brother, Mr. Holmes! I may not have pushed him off the roof, but his blood is on my hands!"

Sally stood suddenly from her chair and pounded her fist onto the expensive table. "I might as well turn in my badge right now! Your brother was right about me! _So what else am I good for!_"

"Is _that_ what you believe?" Mycroft asked mildly, as though they were discussing the weather. "That Sherlock thought unfavorably toward you and your colleagues?"

The silence in the room said more than words ever could.

Mycroft sighed softly. "My brother is often rather difficult to understand. If he truly hated you, he would have asked for me to ensure that you and Dr. Anderson were transferred to different departments. And believe me, I have made the offer. _Several times."_

John stared at Mycroft in shock.

_Was Mycroft suggesting that Sherlock ensured that Anderson and Donovan kept their jobs?_

Knowing Mycroft's attempts to interfere with Sherlock's life, it was certainly within the realm of possibility.

"My brother did not think particularly highly of either one of you, it is true, but not for the reasons that you may believe." Mycroft continued. "He felt that both of you settled for levels of mediocrity when you could have strived to become greater. He felt that by acting as an adversary, you both would have the incentive you needed to become better at your jobs. Had he not seen your potential, he won't have bothered."

Donovan viewed the elder Holmes dubiously. "Then he obviously wasted his efforts, don't you think?"

"Oh? Did he? As I recall, _you_ were the one who first alert Mr. Hopkins to the discrepancies in the interview with the American girl. And your colleague noted the discrepancies in the forensic evidence."

"Why should that matter? Sally's right. We _are_ responsible for Sherlock's death!" Anderson said despondently from where he sat.

"You're not the only ones!" Lestrade said glumly from his seat.

John watched this exchange and fought the conflicted feelings he was experiencing.

He had played out this scenario so many times in his head. The day when the Yard would finally understand what they had done. When Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson realized how they betrayed Sherlock.

John imagined he would have felt grim satisfaction and vindictiveness and spent time considering what he would say to them.

But he never expected _this._

Now faced with the actual reality, John could see that they felt true regret at what they did. Never once did they make any suggestion that Sherlock somehow deserved their suspicion in the first place.

There were no excuses, only true sorrow for the inadvertent roles they played in Sherlock's demise.

John still hadn't forgiven them. Maybe he _never_ would!

But if they were willing to go after Moriarty's organization, then he was willing to work with them. And it _was_ Moriarty that had caused all of this.

Lestrade and the others were just pawns in his twisted game.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm willing to do everything in my power to make sure Moriarty's organization ceases to exist!" John said, slowly rising from his chair. For the first time in months, his leg did not pain him in the slightest. "Anyone who is willing to do the same is welcome to work beside me, as far as I'm concerned."

He glanced over at Donovan, who gazed at him questioningly. "If you want to make it up to Sherlock, then stay with the Yard and help find the evidence we need to make sure that these animals never see the light of day again! Prove to yourself that Sherlock's belief in you was not wrong!"

Donovan stood a few minutes more, as if she was considering what she was going to do. Then she nodded glumly and sat down back in her chair.

Anderson gave a sidelong glance at John and slowly nodded his head. "Count us in."

"You can count on me, too. I think I got a debt to repay, the way I see it." Lestrade said quietly. He glanced over at Hopkins. "What about you, Stan? Still have your mind set on being a civilian?"

Hopkins chuckled, shaking his head. "Someone's going to have to watch your back, mate!"

"_Oi!_" Anderson protested. "What about us?"

"I'll protect you too!" Hopkins said serenely.

Anderson groaned and placed his head on the table. "If Stan is going to be our body guard, then we might as well make out our wills now!"

"What is _that_ supposed to mean, Sil?" Hopkins asked quizzically.

"Only that there is a good reason the department won't issue you a patrol car!" Anderson muttered, earning a few snickers from Lestrade.

"Hey! I can drive!" Hopkins protested.

"Fifteen speeding citations in a four month period…" Anderson pointed out.

"I was chasing after dangerous criminals!" Hopkins insisted.

"Count me in too, DMP!" Chase said, interrupting Hopkins.

"Us too. We are all in." Mary said, standing up and looking resolutely at Mycroft.

"I'm afraid none of you have been paying attention." Mycroft said calmly. "My idea was to spirit you out of the country to a safe destination until this is over. Moriarty's organization branches out all over the globe. It may take a long time to find all of his associates. Until then, John and Inspector Lestrade may be in danger. And Sherlock would not forgive me if harm should befall anyone. Especially you, John." Mycroft finished, directing his gaze at the ex-army doctor.

John snorted. "Well, _Sherlock's_ not here right now to object, is he, Mycroft? And we are _all_ to blame for that!" He stared hard at Mycroft, who characteristically didn't flinch.

John continued, determined to be heard on the matter. "I'm afraid it is _you_ who doesn't understand! Despite the fact that you had all the resources at your disposal, you and your precious _Government_ were taken by surprise by a group of ordinary civilians! No offense, guys!" He said, addressing the Sherlockians in general and Skylar in particular, who nodded back understandingly. Chase grinned, pleased.

"None taken, mate!" Kenneth piped in.

John nodded before turning his attention back towards Mycroft. "I don't care what your plans are! If you want to beef up security on me, plant a tracking device on me, _whatever_, I'm alright with that. _But I am not running away, no matter what._ Sherlock jumped off a bloody roof to protect me. The least you can do is let me help take down his killers. And if Moriarty's organization is as wide-spread as you say, do you really think there is anywhere I'll be safe anyway?"

Mycroft sighed. The loss of his brother was really affecting him. A few months ago, he would never even consider listening to John's request.

_But there was that other little matter to consider..._

"Very well." Mycroft allowed. "Whoever wishes to assist in this endeavor, I will allow them to do so. But it will require absolute secrecy and cooperation on everyone's part. Her Majesty's Government is unaware that I plan to engage in this little endeavor, and I prefer to keep it that way. But you must all agree to the security measures I plan to put in place, because I can't protect you otherwise."

"Agreed." John said resolutely. "All we want is to do our part."

Chase grinned happily from his chair. "Cheers to you, DMP!"

Anderson looked quizzically at Mycroft. "I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Holmes, but why does the kid call you DMP? Does that stand for something?"

Mycroft sighed impatiently as Lestrade started to chuckle again.

It seemed like an explanation would not be immediately forthcoming.

* * *

Author's Note: Well, now that the truth is out, the troops are mobilizing! Oh, and the part where Hopkins refers to Anderson as "Sil." Well, according to wikipedia, one of the creators for "Sherlock," Mark Gatiss, said that Anderson's first name is "Silvia." Now I know where some of Anderson's anger comes from!

Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock" or any characters therein. And my own characters have rebelled against me, so I don't really own them either.

**OC Chase Douglas**-This is great! Prepare the troops! We are hunting down Moriarty's empire! With the DMP, we will beat the crap out of them!

**John Watson**-I'm a little confused, Peaceful Defender. Why is Mycroft suddenly so agreeable to us wanting to help him? Why doesn't he just kidnap us and send us to parts unknown?

**Peaceful Defender**-You know, that is a good question. I would like to know that myself!

**Mycroft Holmes**-It's on a need-to-know basis, and you don't need to know.

**Peaceful Defender**-Mycroft! I know you are hiding something! What's wrong?

**Mycroft Holmes**-If you do not mind, I am in the middle of planning an operation against one of the most dangerous criminal enterprises that has ever existed! I have ,uch to consider, and can't afford to be distracted by abstract and pointless interrogation!

**John Watson**-But you have men, contacts, money, power...bloody hell, you have control of the damn CCTV system!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Uh, yeah! About that...

**Mycroft Holmes**-One more word out of you, Mr. Douglas, and I promise you that all the reviews in the world will not save you!

**Peaceful Defender**-But one review will keep me going! So please post if you enjoyed this chapter!


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: Plans in Darkness**

"Dead man, dead man

When will you arise?

Cobwebs in your mind

Dust upon your eyes"

BOB DYLAN, "Dead Man, Dead Man"

* * *

**_From the private blog of Chase Douglas, hacker extraordinaire._**

**_Greetings to all my loyal fans! It's me! Chase Douglas! C.D. Hottie to all my Fan Fiction friends! Live from London, England! I know some of you missed me and I appreciate your concern (I read your posts, and I felt the love), but I would like to assure everyone that I am completely safe._**

**_ Major news, everyone! As you know, I and my genius compatriots at Fan Fiction orchestrated a plan to unleash the now-infamous "St. Bart's Tape" to the world. And we succeeded! _**

**_Houston, we have lift-off!__ Are we good, or are we GOOD!_**

_** I was there in London for the Main Event! And I was arrested (yeah, I was the cute guy who was handcuffed in front of Scotland Yard while singing "God Save the Queen"). How sweet was that! Did you all see how many hits that video footage got on YouTube? I'm a celebrity!** _

**_But I digress. Anyway, this bad dude drags me and several of my fellow Sherlockians to Lock-Up in a blatant attempt to disrupt our movement. _**

**_But did we fall for it? Nope! We kept it up and sang until we were hoarse! Then the other inmates started singing with us! Even they knew how much this revolution meant! Considering Sherlock probably put half those guys behind bars, it __was__ rather touching._**

**_Either that or they just had nothing better to do with their time._**

**_ I was immediately labeled the trouble-maker and brought up to an interrogation room, where a bunch of Yarders tried to break me. But I stayed strong! I refused to budge. I made my demand to talk to that Inspector Lestrade, and then refused to talk anymore. _**

**_Anyway, after my continuous refusals (Mom and Dad are so proud of me, by the way!), they finally bring in Lestrade to talk to me. _**

**_And you will never guess who was with him! It was HIM! The __DMP_**_**! Yes, for those of you who thought he was a myth, I hate to disappoint. But he's real! And get this! His real name is Mycroft Holmes! For those of you** **who speculated Sherlock had a brother in the British Government, then cheers to you! And some digital cookies!**_

**_ I calmly asked the great DMP some questions that we have all wanted answers to, but he remained stoic behind that icy cold mask. Poor guy really needs to let loose every once in a while, you know? _**

**_Anyhow, after the tape was shown, I prepared for a stint in prison. I watched some prison movies to get prepared, you know. Small price to pay when you are righting a wrong, and I was willing to do it. _**

**_But it never got that far. Around two o'clock in the morning, the DMP himself came to bail me out. Mom and Dad weren't too happy with __that__ part (they don't trust Big Government), but I explained it to them, so we're cool! _**

_** The DMP took me to one of his safe houses and asked me to contact the other members of the Sherlockians so that we could have a meeting. I refused, naturally, but then he showed me proof that their lives could now be in danger.** _

**_Uh, yeah? What the heck do I do? Spill my guts, or call his bluff and hope my comrades don't get shot?_**

**_Fortunately, before I had to make a decision, Skylar calls me up on my cell phone and asks to talk to DMP. Turns out she knew who he was. Never thought Skylar would be rolling with the power trippers, but since she did work for Sherlock, it's only natural she would know he had a brother. _**

**_She also yelled at me for drinking coffee again. I mean, please! Coffee helps me think! We programmers need caffeine to function. So what if I don't get to sleep for the next thirty hours? _**

**_It's all for the greater good!_**

_** Anyways, a week later, I am sitting in on a secret meeting with the DMP and the other Sherlockian leaders, as well as Mary Morstan (fellow Sherlockian and nice woman, even if she is a teacher), Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan (see John Watson's blog for more details), Hopkins (whom DMP actually kidnapped from France. Awesome!) and the great John Watson himself. Turns out, he was not dead, nor did he skip town, as I speculated earlier. **_

**_Oh, well. I can't always be right! _**

**_Anyhow, we made plans to take down Moriarty's organization. I can't go into much detail yet, but I have been invited to help out with some problem about computers. I guess they want me to hack into banking records or whatever, like I did with the Yard Superintendent and that Riley chick. _**

**_And just for the record, I __knew__ she was dirty! Ha! Take __that__, anti-conspiracy theorists!_**

**_ So, bad news, you probably won't hear from me for a bit, and I won't be able to write many stories for Fan Fiction. The DMP read some of them and found them "rather disturbing." _**

**_Damn! Everyone's a critic! _**

_**Good news, I will be with the DMP so hopefully I will get the chance to unlock more of his secrets. And I will be part of the group dedicated to taking Moriarty's organization apart!** _

**_What is in store for our globe-trotting idealist and occasional computer hacker? We shall see! So stay tuned for updates!_**

**_This is Chase Douglas, signing off._**

* * *

The fallout of events continued to occur after the meeting with Mycroft at the Diogenes Club. Publically, Sherlock was officially cleared of all charges. Scotland Yard made a plaque honoring his sacrifice and placed it just inside the building's main entrance.

Sergeant Hopkins was promoted to the post of Detective Inspector, a job he was very reluctant to take. However, the new Chief Superintendent, a calculating veteran by the name of Lucas Maxwell, explained to Hopkins that he had no choice in the matter.

So Inspector Hopkins, as he was now known, did his best to live up to Superintendent Maxwell's expectations. Unlike many younger men who rose quickly through the ranks, Hopkins remained humble and stayed on friendly terms with Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan, often working with them and asking for advice.

The Homeless Network members were now staying away from the Yarders. There were still lingering hostilities at first, and they only agreed to do so after Skylar Simmons talked to them and convinced them that the tactics they employed would now be counter-productive to the main objective, which was to bring justice for Sherlock. After Scotland Yard went public on reopening the case involving Sherlock's "homicide," the Homeless Network had ceased its harassment.

Donovan was taken off desk duty and returned back to the High Crimes Division. But she was no longer the high-spirited officer from before. She barely spoke unless it was necessary, and seemed so subdued that she was barely recognizable. Anyone who tried to engage her in conversation received only half-hearted replies. Donovan also started to completely immerse herself in her work, which slowly ate away at other facets of her life.

This new-found vulnerability and single-minded obsession in Donovan wrought a change in Anderson, who was surprisingly gentle with her, no longer pretending that he did not care for her welfare.

It was a far cry from a year ago, when they were lovers and trying to hide it from the world. However, there was no hint that they were still together in a romantic relationship. If anything, Anderson acted like an over-protective friend.

Donovan never said anything about it, but she was secretly comforted by Anderson's support.

The main bulk of the Sherlockians returned to their homes, proud of their small part in exposing the truth. Only a token force, which included Skylar and Chase, stayed behind at the behest of Mycroft.

Having succeeded in their first goal, the group moved on to the next phase of their plan. _To destroy Moriarty's empire._

* * *

_January 4, Eight months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

"I don't understand! Are you telling me that someone has taken control of your CCTV system? And there is _nothing_ you can do about it?" John asked incredulously.

"That is correct, John." Mycroft explained. "After Sherlock jumped from the roof at Bartholomew's Hospital, I naturally checked to see the surveillance of the CCTV cameras I had posted in the area."

"You said you didn't have any cameras there!" Lestrade protested. "You _lied!"_

"No. I only simplified a complex situation in such a way that you would be able to understand, Inspector." Mycroft said calmly. "When I got to see the footage, the tapes were wiped clean. We have procedures to ensure that didn't happen. So someone managed to do so, which suggests that someone within my network is a traitor and is working for Moriarty. And there are other problems as well. For example, when Moriarty broke into the three most secure buildings in London, the CCTV cameras showed previously filmed footage that was played over and over."

"Like what they did in the movie 'Speed.' With Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock." Chase explained from his seat.

"Which means that someone has taken control of our surveillance program. And for this reason, I was unable to obtain the footage that would have cleared Sherlock's name. Nor was I in a position to help him, as whoever took over the system ensured that I could not locate Sherlock until it was too late." Mycroft confessed softly. "Had I known, I would have deployed my own snipers to take out Moriarty's men."

"But how can anyone get access to your system? Is it an inside job?" John asked.

"That is why the DMP is requesting that I stick around for a bit to see if I can figure that out!" Chase said calmly. The American, despite being warned multiple times, insisted on calling Mycroft "DMP," much to the elder man's chagrin and everyone's constant amusement. "If it is an inside job, then we can't let anyone know the DMP is onto them. Otherwise, all kinds of shit can happen!"

"What can happen?" Skylar asked weakly.

"All the government-ran systems are connected to the CCTV system." Mycroft explained. "Money could be electronically transferred anywhere in the world, leaving England's finest financial institutions bankrupt, which would create a domino effect around the world market. Agents working for various organizations can have their identities exposed and thus be targeted and killed. Government secrets can be sold to the highest bidder. And other situations that would be detrimental to London and England as a whole."

"How can you be so _calm _about all of this?" Lestrade said disbelievingly.

"Emotion and panic does nothing to help the current situation, Inspector." Mycroft reminded him. "That is why any dealings we have will continue to take place here, at the Diogenes Club. It is one of the few places that remain secure, as it has its own separate security system that is completely disconnected from the CCTV system."

"Can someone fire nuclear weapons from your system?" Skylar asked nervously.

Mycroft regarded her calmly. "No. They cannot."

"Bloody good, that!" Lestrade muttered.

Skylar nodded empathically in agreement.

* * *

John rubbed his temples fiercely to fight his raging headache. Although they have met several times with Mycroft to learn more about the global empire that Moriarty had constructed over the years, this particular meeting was held in secret with the designated leaders, which included Mycroft, John, Lestrade, and Skylar.

For two months, Mycroft had been successfully evading questions as to why he was not making full use of the CCTV system that he used so often while spying (or "observing," according to Mycroft) on the citizens of London.

After John's impatience had finally reached the boiling point, Mycroft had called this little meeting to come clean. So while Mycroft continued to explain the situation, John allowed his mind to drift to reflect on the information he had been privy to over the last few months.

Mycroft had previously explained to the group that taking down Moriarty's empire was a feat that would likely take several years to accomplish, due to the web's organization and size. Tormenting Sherlock and bombing innocent civilians were just a few of Moriarty's little hobbies that he indulged in when he felt so inclined. When he wasn't busy blowing up people or threatening to shoot them, Moriarty actually engaged in several other illegal but lucrative endeavors.

In South America, for example, Moriarty had contacts with several drug lords who sold their wares all over the globe. Billions of pounds were made annually in the drug trade industry. Cocaine, marijuana, and other drugs continued to make their way into cities and homes around the world.

The drug trade had existed long before Moriarty, and it would likely continue to do so. But no one doubted that taking out Moriarty's contacts in South America would severely weaken the drug lords' ability to ship their "products."

In Africa and the Middle East, Moriarty's organization dealt heavily in the arms' trade, selling the latest weapons to the highest bidders. Also, several of Moriarty's hit men worked as an assassin-for-hire operation. Under his orders, hundreds of people met their end by a well-placed bullet to the head or the heart.

Finally, in Europe, various people working for Moriarty were in positions of power that they were able to obtain government secrets. Irene Adler herself had once been part of this system before her unfortunate demise at the hands of the Taliban some months ago.

Mycroft wished now that he had chosen to deal with the stunning dominatrix, as she could have proven useful in this situation.

But all was not lost, as it seemed that Moriarty's organization was falling apart from the inside after the death of its ruthless leader. In China, for example, members of the Black Lotus, whom Sherlock had previous dealings with, had continued to rule the criminal underbelly with help from Moriarty's organization.

At least, until very recently.

Just a few weeks prior, near Christmas, Mycroft delivered the news that the leaders of the Black Lotus had become embroiled in a civil war within its own ranks, which left many of its leaders and members either dead or captured. Also, the local authorities received mounds of evidence that lead to the arrests and convictions of the remaining members.

In the space of a few short weeks, the Black Lotus went from a disciplined group engaged in organized crime to splintered factions that were being taken down, one right after the other.

The reasons behind the collapse remained unclear, but the truth could not be denied. The Black Lotus was no longer a viable entity and thus could be erased from the equation.

There was one within the Sherlockians who was particularly pleased with this new development.

_Nina Somoto._

On Moriarty's orders, the Black Lotus had bombed several buildings, killing several people in the process. Among them were Nina Somoto's parents. The dark haired beauty had joined the Sherlockians in part to take down the Black Lotus and avenge her family. Now, at least, a small measurement of justice was won for the young woman.

Elsewhere in the world, a few months prior to the airing of the "Bart's Tape," another part of Moriarty's empire had collapsed. In the States, Moriarty had a system where several doctors would _incapacitate_ some of their patients and harvest their organs, selling them overseas on the black market for a reasonably tidy profit for all involved.

Except for the victims, of course. They _never_ survived the procedure.

This part of Moriarty's web had previously unrivalled when a skilled surgeon by the name of Dr. Culvington Smith, who himself had killed his own nephew and harvested his organs, became the target of a covert FBI sting that revealed the man's involvement.

Once the FBI captured Dr. Smith, they used him to find the other members involved in the gruesome organ trade. This lead to the capture of almost all of the members of Moriarty's North American web and the seizure of all of the assets belonging to the group.

So, without even lifting a finger, Mycroft and his allies found that at least two important parts of Moriarty's global empire had fallen.

But for all the progress made, this was _nothing_ compared to the situation they now faced in England.

* * *

"Who would be able to pull that off? Taking over your system, I mean." Lestrade asked, his voice shaking John out of his musings.

"If it is someone who is not part of the government, then I know of only a few hackers who could have pulled this off from the outside. There is _Escape Artist_, _Assassin_, _Maverick's Mark_, _Chimera_, and _Delphi_. Those are the only ones currently active who have the skills to pull this off." Chase explained as he monitored his computer screen.

"Actually, we can safely deduce that _Assassin_, who goes by the name of William Bradford, isn't involved, as he currently works for the U.S. Government to avoid incarceration for his various crimes." Mycroft said evenly. "And _Delphi_ has already been cleared of this particular incident."

Chase turned around in his chair. "How do you know that? The hackers I mentioned are the best of the best! They are practically _legends_, for crying out loud! _No one_ knows who they are! Not even other hackers!"

"That is incorrect, Mr. Douglas. First, my contacts in the U.S. government told me about Mr. Bradford, and I have no reason to doubt them. I also met _Delphi_, many years ago. She had broken into the CCTV system several years ago, and was the only one to succeed before now. Because of her, we had to change many of our security protocols." Mycroft said calmly.

"You met the _Delphi_? Wow, DMP! You're the _man_!" Chase exclaimed.

John looked over at Lestrade and rolled his eyes. "How do you know that this _Delphi_ is not the one that broke in the CCTV system _this_ time?"

"Because _Delphi_ is dead." Mycroft replied. "She died a few months ago from advanced Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma."

"How well did you know this _Delphi_?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"Not well." Mycroft admitted. "_Delphi_, whose real name was Danielle Morray, was a young woman with an amazing ability to understand any computer system and an instinct on breaking it down. A genius in her own right. She also had a remarkable ability to deduce things about people."

"So there was someone else who had yours and Sherlock's deductive abilities?" John asked incredulously.

Mycroft shook his head impatiently. "No. Ms. Morray did not have the same ability. There really is no technical term for it, but she called it 'intuitive thinking.' In many ways, she could function as an empath, a person who could tell a lot about a person by the emotions they were feeling. Except that unlike a true empath, she could control her ability."

"What is an empath?" Skylar asked.

"It is a person who is able to feel, literally, the emotions of those around them. For example, if an empath was around a person who was afraid, then he or she is able to, literally, feel the intensity of that fear, as if it were their own. Ms. Morray had that ability, to an extent, except that she could block what she felt from others when she chose to, to keep herself from being overwhelmed. She used her gift to deduce, in particular, what motivated a person. She was able to feel, just by seeing a person, what was important to him or her; money, family, power, and so on. She used her ability because it enhanced her computer prowess."

"So, because she could deduce feelings from people, she could use that knowledge to make her a better hacker." John said. "She could figure out passwords and other things much faster than other people because she knew what was important to them, and used that knowledge to her advantage."

"That is correct, John." Mycroft confirmed.

"This may sound like a stupid question, but humor me." Chase spoke up. He looked at Mycroft, head cocked to the side. "If you knew who _Delphi_ was, why didn't you try to recruit her or something, like the Americans did with _Assassin_?"

"I did. She refused." Mycroft said, looking bored with the entire conversation.

"I'm surprised you didn't _force_ her to stay!" Lestrade muttered.

"Normally, I would have. But the situation was… _complicated_." Mycroft replied.

"Complicated? How so?" Chase asked eagerly.

"Complicated enough that you do not need to be informed about the details." Mycroft said blandly. However, there was a slight edge of impatience in his tone, and Chase quickly caught the hint.

"Ok, so _Assassin_ and _Delphi _are out. So that leaves us with three other candidates. And that is assuming, of course, that this entire mess does not involve someone working for the British Government." Chase summed up. "Do you happen to know the identities of the other hackers I named?"

"No." Mycroft admitted freely. "Unless I have evidence to suggest that they are presenting a danger to the British Government, then I see no reason to concern myself with them."

Chase nodded approvingly. "Well, I have a word of advice. If one of them _is_ involved, then they will eventually reveal themselves. But if you actively seek them all out, without proof, then you may just succeed in creating new enemies. Besides, most hackers have a code of honor. Unless you are doing something that will threaten the lives of others, most hackers will not turn you in. It's like a group of rebels. We don't turn in one of our own unless there is a very good reason for it."

Chase paused, a Cheshire cat-like grin on his face. "However, we _will_ work to catch a hacker who goes out of their way to harm people! I think that if I just monitor communications, I will be able to tell you whether or not an outside hacker is involved."

"How long will that take?" John asked.

Chase sighed and folded his hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair. "_Too long!_ Because I also have to go through the CCTV system and all the programs connected to it to see how the system was breached! And in order to do that, I have to go into the main data readout and analysis all the commands, one code at a time. That may take months!"

"We don't have months!" Skylar exclaimed.

Chase nodded. "I do have a program that I can use to make the task much faster, but I have to be here to monitor it, so that whoever has hijacked the CCTV system doesn't know I've gained entry." Chase turned back from his computer. "However, if a couple of my friends from the Fan Fiction site were to monitor the outside communications for me, that will leave me free to focus on finding the entry point that our mysterious hacker used to get control of the CCTV system."

"No!" Mycroft said flatly. "It is almost inconceivable that I have to rely on a _civilian_ because my own people are compromised! I will not involve others!"

"With all due respect, DMP, I don't think we have much of a choice!" Chase pointed out. "Besides, the people I have in mind are 'white hat' hackers, like me, who will break into a system only to test for weaknesses, not for personal gain or to destroy information. They will _gladly_ go after a hacker who makes the rest of us look bad!"

"Mycroft, the kid does have a point." Lestrade pressed. "The sooner we identify these people, then the sooner we can rule them out. What harm can it do?"

"A great deal of harm if this information got into the wrong hands!" Mycroft snapped.

After his brother's death, he really only had two purposes left to live for. Find the men responsible for Sherlock's death and bring about their swift demise. But he also had a duty to her Majesty's Government and his country.

He couldn't abandon it now, not after investing most of his life into it.

"Look, DMP! How about this? Why don't I submit a list of names of my Fan Fiction group, and you can have security checks run on them? That way, you know who you are dealing with. I'll have to get their permission first, of course. Like I said, we hackers have a code." Chase replied readily.

"And what form of compensation will they request in return?" Mycroft muttered under his breath.

"Hell, the chance to be part of a take-down will be reward itself! It will be _fun_!" Chase explained. "Why else do we do it? The web is the new frontier, you get it? Now that everything's connected, we expose ourselves to dangers like this. And since we don't have a global police force dedicated to this type of problem, it looks like you are going to have to rely on people like me. Just ordinary people, out to save the world!" Chase paused to award Mycroft with one of his signature grins. "Or perpetrate chaos! Whichever comes first!"

"How _reassuring_ that the fate of the Crown is in your capable hands." Mycroft shot back sarcastically.

"That's the way we roll, DMP!" Chase answered back, not knowing he was insulted. "But look, it's either my group, or it's going to your government workers, whom you suspect may be behind this whole mess in the first place! The way I see it, I'm the best you got!"

"You really should consider running for office, Chase." Lestrade said approvingly. "If you ever become a British citizen, maybe you can run for Parliament or something like that!"

"Uh, _no_! The day that you hear that I'm running for office is the day you blow off my head, because it means I have been kidnapped and a cyborg has taken my place!" Chase huffed. "It's bad enough that I had to explain this to my parents! They are _so_ not thrilled about me working for the DMP!"

"A bit not good, huh?" John said sympathetically.

"How about a _whole bunch_ of not good!" Chase exclaimed. "They hate Big Government! Hopefully I can go home. _Some day_!" Chase finished, giving puppy-dog eyes to Mycroft, who stared back stoically.

"_Aww!_" Skylar said, going over to Chase and giving him a hug. "You see what Chase has done for you, Mycroft! And you _still_ have no faith in him!"

"Considering he just lied as to the extent of damage done to the relationship between him and his parents, Ms. Simmons, I am disposed not to. I spoke to Mr. Douglas's parents, giving them only the minimum details, of course, and after some prompting, they were supportive with my request for Mr. Douglas to stay on and assist me here. Although in hindsight, they were much more impressed with the fact that he was arrested." Mycroft explained.

Skylar frowned and hit Chase in the back of the head. "Chase! You _arse!_"

"Had you going, though!" Chase smirked before turning back to Mycroft. "And that just goes to show I _am _capable of deception. So how about it, DMP?" Chase grinned winningly at the government official.

Mycroft shook his head. "If anything should happen…"

"Yeah, yeah! We went over this before! You will lock me in some deserted cell and come up with loop holes to get around the Geneva Convention! Then you will cut off my head and post it in front of your office as a '_Don't Mess With the DMP or You Will Look Like Me!_' sign! I gotcha!" Chase said, rolling his eyes and not looking concerned in the slightest. "So, when do I start?"

* * *

Millions of miles away, in a secret location, a man sat in the shadows, calmly sipping his brandy as he read the newspaper article that one of his contacts had retrieved for him. The newspaper itself was a few months old and wrinkled, testifying to the fact that it had been read multiple times.

The headline read as follows; "**CONSULTING DETECTIVE MURDERED**." Underneath the title, the writer detailed with great precision the series of events that lead to the confrontation of Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty (_how amusing that they gotten the name right now, after so many months of denying that he even existed_) and ended with a touching eulogy to the bravery of the man who gave his life to save his friends while simultaneously calling out for vengeance against those who were directly responsible.

The man must have read the article multiple times, yet he couldn't get enough of it.

It was so _amusing_, really! This same paper was amongst the first to write a disparaging story about the late Mr. Holmes.

_How fickle fate was, sometimes!_

The writer was right about one thing, though. Those responsible for the death of Sherlock Holmes would pay.

_But who was responsible, ultimately?_

James Moriarty stared out into the darkness, black eyes gleaming as he considered what to do.

Despite rumors to the contrary, he was still very much alive. It was hilarious, in a way, how everyone took solace in the fact that he allegedly died along with Sherlock that day. But Moriarty was brilliant, of course. He knew how to cheat death!

_Why die when there were still games to be played?_

Even though lately events have not been going as good as he would have liked. Things hadn't been the same since the "Fall of Reichenbach."

First, that inept Dr. Smith managed to get himself captured in Tennessee because he didn't know how to be discrete. _Stupid man!_

He really _should_ be killed, of course, but prison would be a far worse punishment for the once prominent doctor and his other colleagues. Also, Moriarty was very careful not to share information about the rest of his empire with the leaders of his North American web. They didn't seem too concerned, of course, as long as they got paid.

However, the loss of his almost exclusive hold over the black market for illegal organs was a substantial financial blow, but Moriarty figured he could always find a new avenue for making money, once he had time to explore other avenues.

The collapse of the Black Lotus, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. Reports were still conflicting, but it seemed that several prominent leaders of the powerful organization were being delivered into the hands of the authorities. Because the evidence was so detailed, the remaining heads of the Black Lotus assumed that one of their own was a traitor. Several members were pre-emptively assassinated for being suspected of betraying the Black Lotus.

But the leak never stopped, and as more and more people were rounded up and convicted (some of them doomed to life in prison, while others were to meet their end through a firing squad or other acceptable capital punishment), the Black Lotus broke out into an all-out civil war, resorting to shooting each other in broad daylight in the middle of the streets.

Despite Moriarty's efforts to contain the damage, the Black Lotus refused to stop their self-destructive violence, with some of the members even accusing _Moriarty_ of being behind the entire thing!

_How incredibly idiotic!_

Then the local authorities managed to seize the remaining assets that were in the Black Lotus's possession. Worse, they found several of the "facilities" that the Black Lotus operated.

The facilities were places employed for the purpose of "disciplining" people who had upset Moriarty. And of course, what the Black Lotus saw as "discipline," many others saw as torture in the highest form, where victims were broken down both physically and mentally until there was nothing left.

Moriarty sighed as he set aside the paper and drained his glass. The loss of those facilities was akin to someone taking a child's favorite toy away. He rather enjoyed sending his enemies to these places, just to experiment on how long it took before they broke down completely. Now he was forced to do without them. He had only a few such places left, and he always made full use of them.

But if there was one thing the Black Lotus excelled at, it was torture.

_How depressing! __How unfortunate it was to lose out on those skills._

It was indeed a tragic loss, all told. He wished he could rebuild, but the events that occurred on that hospital rooftop hurt his network almost as much as it hurt the friends of the late Sherlock Holmes.

And who was to blame for that?

After all, life without Sherlock Holmes had become so _dull_. There was no one even close to the same caliber!

Well, that wasn't _exactly_ true. There was Sherlock's brother, of course, but he was so damned _predictable_, hiding behind his little army and agents. The man was simply too pompous for Moriarty's liking.

And, off course, there was always _her_.

The man's eyes narrowed as he recalled the one other person still around who could hope to match his wits. Her eyes, which were a lighter shade of brown, always staring at him, studying him. Her fiery red hair. And that stupid brown leather jacket that she always wore. Of course, she had not fashion sense whatsoever!

But inside her head was a level of intelligence similar to his own.

Moriarty took another sip of his drink as he considered. Danielle Morray, aka "Dani." She was smart enough to make the game interesting. Also, she had been an annoyance over the years, occasionally messing with several of his operations, but never enough to cause him to go after her in earnest.

From the very beginning, she sensed what he was. She had tried to "save" him, at first, because she _loved_ him.

_How droll! __Stupid! So very, very stupid!_

Hopefully, his men would find out where she was hiding now, and _dispose _of her accordingly.

But enough about her! She spent years running from him. It was a game of cat and mouse, nothing more. Eventually the mouse would find herself trapped in a corner, with no way out.

It wasn't as if she was a _threat_ to him!

_Although she did know all about the inner workings of his network…_

Moriarty shook his head. There was no way she would be after him now, after hiding for nearly a decade! He needn't worry. Everything would take care of itself, in due course.

Until then, Moriarty should focus on punishing those responsible for Sherlock's demise.

Of course, Moriarty wasn't to blame. _He_ was only doing Sherlock a favor! Had it not been for Moriarty, then Sherlock never would have learned just how pointless it was to fight alongside of angels. It was a costly lesson for the poor man.

_And such a waste of potential talent!_

The Yard, of course, was high on the list to suffer for their utter incompetence. The Yard was perfectly happy to use the consulting detective's skills until he was suspected of the kidnapping of the two children.

All of that was fine, except that they had let him _escape_, so that eventually he was lead to his demise on the roof top at St. Bart's.

Had things gone to plan, Sherlock would have been convicted and seen for himself just how much people had abandoned him. How _untrustworthy_ ordinary people could be! Then, after allowing Sherlock some time to reflect, Moriarty would have given Sherlock a choice to either join him or rot behind bars forever.

Either the beautiful consulting detective would become his and finally use his talents for good use, or he would die alone and likely insane. And knowing Sherlock's overactive mind, there is only so much he could have taken before the boredom and inactivity tore him apart.

_Yes. The Yard must pay for their incompetence! _

Mycroft Holmes was also responsible. _Seriously, how could he be fooled so easily! _ Did Mycroft _really_ think that Moriarty was ever in his power? If anything, his capture allowed him to give personal instructions to his contact inside the British Government.

There was also that little matter with the CCTV system…

However, he was not done playing with Mycroft yet. Whereas his interest in Sherlock was due to the fact that they were alike, Moriarty's interest in Mycroft had to do with the fact that Mycroft once deprived Moriarty of something that belonged to him.

_And no one takes things away from Moriarty!_

But he would be one of the hardest to get to. The official was always so damned _protected_, as his contact repeatedly told him.

Maybe it would simply be more fun for Mycroft to see that for all of his power, he was only a man. Already, Moriarty had control of Mycroft's network. Any time he chose to, he could type in the right commands and cause Mycroft's precious government to fall apart.

But not yet. He wanted Mycroft to suffer a little first.

And Johnny Boy, of course. He would pay as well. In fact, he had _big_ plans for John!

There were a couple of other parties that would suffer on his list. But timing was everything. He could not rush these things. Planning was always half the fun anyway.

_Why act prematurely and spoil the surprise?_

In the darkness of his sitting room, James Moriarty smiled as he considered his revenge.

* * *

Author's Note: What the hell? Moriarty is alive? Why did I just write that? And what is his problem with Danielle Morray, the red haired woman from the Prolouge?

So now you know the identity of the woman known as "Dani" from the Prologue. Danielle Morray, aka "Delphi," a world class hacker who had once taken over the CCTV system in London. Is she behind the takeover again? Mycroft seems to think she is dead. Is he right?

And if she is still alive, what is her interest in Moriarty and Sherlock?

Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock." If I did, we would see the next set of episodes in the next few weeks, not sometime in 2013!

**James Moriarty**-(walks into the room) Peaceful Defender, my sweet! How are you these days?

**Peaceful Defender**-(groans) What the _hell_ are you doing here? You are suppose to be dead!

**James Moriarty**-But you brought me back, love! During one of your manic writing episodes!

**Peaceful Defender**-I know! And thank you _so much_ for reminding me! After I finished reading this chapter, I immediately signed up for a meeting with a psychaitrist! But until then, I think I need a drink! (Pulls out a bottle of wine).

**James Moriarty**-Oh my! Peaceful Defender, you rarely drink! My coming back must have really affected you! (Takes a couple of steps closer) Need some help with that?

**Peaceful Defender**-(Glares back) Get your own! Go bug someone else! In case it hasn't escaped your attention, you have your own damned problems! The Black Lotus is at war with one another, which can only hurt your business, and your little "chop shop" business in America has gone out the window!

**James Moriarty** (grumbling)-Yes. Well. Merely some internal problems that will soon be corrected.

**Peaceful Defender**-Then go correct them! And leave the rest of my characters alone! (takes long drink from wine bottle).

**James Moriarty**-But it is so much fun to mess with them! And speaking of which, I can't let you stay alive! If you do, you may kill me off! (waves his hand, and multiple laser points appear on Peaceful Defender).

**Peaceful Defender** (yawns) I already prepared for that! If you kill me, then my sister will download a chapter that will end with your painful demise. And the snipper thing?_ Boring!_ Already done! Come back when you can be more creative!

**James Moriarty** (grinning)-Very well! I'll let you live, for now. (waves his hand, and lasers disappear). Go get some sleep now, my dear! And pleasant dreams! (Blows kiss and leaves).

**Peaceful Defender**-"Pleasant dreams?" Not likely! I am going to need a review or two to cheer me up!


	8. Chapter 7

**Note: Graphic description of torture near the end of this chapter. Be warned!**

**Also, a special thanks to all who have followed this story, made it a favorite, or took time to write a review. I appreciate it more than I can possible say!**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Steps Towards Forgiveness**

"Forgiveness is healing ... especially forgiving yourself." Alyson Noel, _Evermore_

* * *

_March 14__th__. Ten months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

"Are you alright, love?" Mary asked John, concern etched on her features.

"Hmm?" John shook himself out of his reverie to smile at Mary. "Oh! I'm fine. Just a little distracted."

Mary sighed good-naturedly. "You know you don't have to pretend, John. I can tell you were thinking about Sherlock. And that's fine." Mary said softly, eyes filled with sympathy.

John was struck anew as to how much his Mary could actually see. Also, he couldn't help but be impressed by her patience as he continued to deal with his grief. In fact, John doubted that any other woman that Sherlock had assisted in the past would actually all John to mourn the detective's passing in the same way Mary seemed to.

_How did I get so lucky to find her?_

After the chaos died down last year, John started to take Mary out regularly to dinner. It began as a way to repay her for her earlier hospitality, but it quickly evolved into something more.

Now, nearly five months later, he found himself in a serious relationship with her.

Recently, Mary had moved out of her flat for "personal reasons." It turned out her landlord was a man who hoped that Mary would take an interest in him. When she politely declined, he engaged in various ways to get back at her and to pressure her into a relationship.

She still refused.

One night, a month ago, he cornered her, drunk and violent. She was forced to utilize her kickboxing skills before fleeing her home and showing up on the doorstep of 221 B Baker Street.

After confessing to John about what was going on, he accompanied her back to the flat the next day to gather her belongings, only to find the landlord had already changed the locks and threw most of her possessions out onto the street, where some of them were already damaged beyond repair.

John, who had enough of the treatment that Mary was receiving at the hands of her obnoxious landlord, promptly tracked him down and enlisted Mycroft's help in a little "kidnapping" that resulted in the landlord pleading for mercy and writing out a check to cover the damage he caused to Mary's belongings, as well as some extra money to cover Mary's moving expenses and rent for when she found another flat.

There were other changes. For one thing, Mary was now under Mycroft's protective surveillance as well, since her blossoming romance with John would likely make her a target for Moriarty's empire.

Besides getting a secured cell phone (which was virtually untraceable to outside parties), Mary was also be viewed at a distance by men hand-picked by Mycroft to protect her, just as they were doing for other members who were once close to Sherlock. Yet they were very skilled. John had only seen his body guards a few times, and only when they wished for him to see them.

While John still hadn't fully forgiven Mycroft for the role he played in Sherlock's death, his assistance with Mary did much to repair the relationship between the two men, as John became marginally more cordial to Mycroft.

Mary had temporarily moved into the flat at 221 C Baker Street, the flat that had stayed empty for so long until she could make other arrangements. Mrs. Hudson (the landlady not housekeeper, _thank you very much_), welcomed Mary with open arms and did everything she could to make Mary feel comfortable, saying how happy she was that John found such a "nice young woman."

It seemed that in Mrs. Hudson's mind, _all_ the tenants in her building had to be in a relationship of some sort.

John remembered when she had once thought the same thing about him and Sherlock.

Only _this_ time, Mrs. Hudson was correct.

Mary was thrilled with her new living arrangements. The flat was much closer to her school, and she enjoyed John's company, often inviting him to eat breakfast with her, which was where John currently found himself.

John smiled back as he straightened his collar. "Do I look alright?"

"Real handsome." Mary grinned. "I'm not sure I should let you go. Those female patients will be throwing themselves on you!"

"Well, you can always come and be my bodyguard." John teased. "If one of them tries to take advantage of me, you can come flying in with your kickboxing skills and save me!"

"Ha ha! Now off with you! Won't do to be late, would it?" Mary stated with mock seriousness. "And don't forget. We are supposed to eat out with Harry and Clara tonight!"

John smiled as he recalled Harry, his sister, who had struggled for years with alcohol abuse. Harry was away in France when Sherlock had jumped, checking herself into a long-term treatment program at the behest of her lover, Clara.

Normally, she would give up and leave the treatment program, soon to relapse back into her destructive habits. Yet this time was different. Somehow, Harry managed to stay the entire six months, and she hadn't drunk a drop of alcohol ever since. As such, John's relationship with Harry had vastly improved.

Tonight, John and Mary were invited to dinner with the two women, to celebrate the one-year anniversary of Harry staying sober.

John smiled as he kissed Mary on the cheek. "I'll see you tonight."

* * *

"Ah! Good morning, John." Dr. Anthuster stated as John walked into the break room. "It is good to see you."

A man in his mid-sixties, Dr. Matthew Anthuster was a man of commanding presence. His face was creased with wrinkles around the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, which suggested that this man spent a lot of time smiling. His skin was ruddy, and his silvery hair was combed back neatly.

In all, Dr. Anthuster looked exactly like what he was; a brilliant and caring doctor with old-fashioned values and a pleasant, genteel nature.

"Good morning, Dr. Anthuster. How busy does it look this morning?" John asked politely.

"Ready to seize the day, eh?" Dr. Anthuster chuckled as he set down his cup of coffee. "Well, we don't have too many patients this morning. Actually, do you mind coming with me to my office? I wish to speak to you privately."

John looked back at Dr. Anthuster in confusion.

_Surely the man wasn't planning on firing him?_

Over the last several months, even with all the secret meetings at the Diogenes Club, he hadn't missed a day of work.

"That will be fine." John said, trying to keep his voice neutral.

John followed Dr. Anthuster out of the break room and into the hallway that lead to the elderly doctor's private office. He sat behind the desk and motioned for John to take a seat. John did and waited silently for Dr. Anthuster to state whatever was on his mind.

"Unlike most privately owned practices, John, we here at the Anthuster Family Clinic are exactly that. A family." Dr. Anthuster looked at John and grinned. "We all get along here, and we work hard at what we do."

"I can understand that, Dr. Anthuster." John said awkwardly.

"Please, John, call me Matthew. You have been with us for, what, several months now?" Dr. Anthuster said kindly.

"About that, yeah." John answered back slowly. Guilt began to creep into his stomach as he realized that he had hardly made any attempt to forge a friendship with anyone at this office ever since he started working for Dr. Anthuster_. _

Even if he _was _only working part-time.

Dr. Anthuster chuckled at the embarrassed look on John's face. "When I started this practice almost thirty years ago, I wanted to offer people in London a place where they would know what it was like to have doctors who actually treated them like people and not like numbers. I wanted doctors who knew how to _treat people_! Over the last few decades, young people like yourself are thrown into medical school and are stuffed with facts and diagnosis and whatever else they teach. But no effort is given to how to teach them how to talk to a patient! It's so sad."

"Yes." John agreed.

He had seen Dr. Anthuster so rarely over his employment, except for the occasional office meeting or a rare lunch every now and then. He wasn't sure exactly how to talk to his boss, simply because he hadn't had the chance to speak to him often.

In fact, since the day he was hired, this is the most Dr. Anthuster has _ever _talked to him!

Anthuster took a sip of his coffee before continuing. "That's why I hired you, John. You know how to treat patients as though they are people. It is a rare gift to have, as no one bothers to teach it anymore. I contacted your commander in the army, as well as your pervious employers. They all told me the same thing. That you work hard, and you care for people."

John was taken back. He always assumed that Dr. Anthuster only talked to Sarah, who probably wanted to get rid of him anyways and was more than willing to say anything nice just so he is hired somewhere else.

"Sometimes I care too much." John admitted softly.

"I don't consider that a bad thing." Dr. Anthuster looked at John appraisingly. "Did you know my son was an army doctor as well? He served overseas, just like you. He worked so hard! No matter what he did, no matter how many lives he saved, it was always the ones that he was unable to save that haunted him! In many ways, you remind me of him."

John's embarrassment grew as he realized that Dr. Anthuster had described him quite accurately. He _was_ haunted, ever since Sherlock jumped off the roof at St. Bart's. "Where is your son now, Sir? Has he opened his own practice?" John asked hesitantly.

Dr. Anthuster sighed, and his eyes became unfocused, as though he was seeing something that was very, very far away. "He died. Three years ago. He was serving his second term in Afghanistan, when his best friend was caught in an ambush. He turned around to save him, and he took a bullet to the chest just as he dragged his friend to safety."

Dr. Anthuster took another sip of his coffee before continuing. "My only son. Benjamin Anthuster. Stubborn, just like me! He made me so proud!"

"I'm so sorry to hear that." John said sincerely. He had seen many of his own friends cut to bits and blown up by land minds. It was hard enough to see it; how much harder was it for the families?

It must certainly have been hard on Dr. Anthuster.

Dr. Anthuster nodded absently before glancing back at John. "That is another reason why I hired you, John. Because you understand what that is like." Dr. Anthuster admitted quietly. "And there are other reasons as well. Believe it or not, I'm a fan of your blog. And I have been, for some time." Dr. Anthuster smiled guiltily, as if he was divulging a dirty little secret.

John gaped, and Dr. Anthuster chuckled with amusement at John's dumbfounded expression.

"You _knew?_ All this time?" John whispered.

Dr. Anthuster nodded. "I particularly enjoyed your rendition of 'The Geek Interpreter,' although all your entries were rather entertaining."

John couldn't believe it. For the past few months, Dr. Anthuster never gave the _slightest hint_ that he knew that John was connected to Sherlock. That meant that Dr. Anthuster had hired John while the rest of the world still believed that Sherlock was a fraud.

_Why? _

"You hired me even though, at the time, I was a friend of someone that many people believed was a fraud and a criminal?" John asked incredulously.

Dr. Anthuster's eyes twinkled with amusement. "No, John. I hired you because you refused to back down, even when everyone was against you. There are not many people willing to do that. You stood by your friend, and demonstrated a strong moral fiber that is a rarity in this world. Believe me, I am old, _ancient_ even, according to my grandchildren, and I know what I'm talking about. That alone told me that you were just the man I was looking for when we had position available." Dr. Anthuster grinned.

"I see." John muttered quietly. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Dr. Anthuster shrugged. "Because I follow the news as well. I know you are going to be involved in the investigations and whatever inquests that may result from them. I heard that the Metropolitan Police took several members of Moriarty's group into custody in a raid a few days ago. I just wanted you to know that you didn't have to hesitate to ask me for time off if you need it. Whatever hours you take off, you can always make them up." Dr. Anthuster said mildly.

"Thank you, sir." John couldn't help but feel immense gratitude toward the elderly doctor. For weeks, he considered how he was going to approach his employer to ask for some time off without getting into the reason why, which would involve having to explain about Sherlock, Moriarty, and other things that he assumed the elderly doctor had no knowledge of.

Now, it seemed, his worries were unfounded.

"Please, John. It's _Matthew_. Oh, and don't let Gertrude know that I _actually _know how to use a computer! She feels _so_ useful when she has to type up a document or find the latest article for me. It would depress her ever so much if you told her." Dr. Anthuster grinned wickedly

John laughed. Gertrude, a middle-aged woman with the bee-hive hairdo and an ego that so often goes with petty authority, prided herself as the glue that kept the office together. To even suggest otherwise to her was _unimaginable._ "I won't, _Matthew._ And thank you. For…for everything."

Dr. Anthuster smiled. "Just never forget who you are, John. Never harden yourself, or you cease to be a good doctor."

"I won't, Sir." John said, pausing in front of the elderly man. He held out his hand, which the other doctor accepted. Then John walked out of the office, ready to get to work and let his patients know that he considered them to be people worthy of his attention.

* * *

John chose his lunch break to go to his friend's grave site. Normally, he preferred going during the afternoons, just after getting off work.

But today, John felt the need to go early.

It was a private cemetery, well maintained by the grounds workers who were employed there. The gated area also prevented the casual pedestrian from cutting across the area. Everyone who entered was there to mourn a loved one or honor a fallen friend.

Sherlock's grave was near the corner of the cemetery, in a quiet area near some trees. After his death, John always came by at least once a week.

Back then, he would occasionally come across a fresh bouquet of flowers that someone had left behind, which was probably left by a Sherlockian or a former client who came to pay his or her respects.

Of course, after the "St. Bart's Tape" aired, Sherlock's grave became practically covered in mounds and mounds of flowers. Also, the ground leading to Sherlock's resting place had become bare of any grass, testifying to the obscene number of times that the grave had been visited.

The sight brought mixed feelings for John.

On one hand, he was happy to see that his friend was finally being honored and recognized as the brilliant mind and human being that he was. However, he also felt anger towards those who chose to mourn Sherlock only when it became safe and popular to do so.

John cared nothing for these people, who only choose to honor Sherlock after the truth was discovered. They were _pretenders_, _cowards_, who went wherever the tide flowed. For John, the few humble flowers at the beginning meant so much more than the pricey arrangements that adorned his friend's grave now.

But in all of his visits to Sherlock's final resting place, John had never once ran into a fellow visitor. So today, as he rounded the corner and passed the trees that were a few yards away, he was surprised to see that there was already someone there.

And it was someone he recognized.

"Sergeant Donovan?"

The female sergeant whirled around, startled. Then she saw John standing a few yards away. "Oh! Sorry, Doctor. I was just leaving!"

"_No!"_ John said automatically, without thinking. "I mean, you can stay. It doesn't bother me."

Sally looked down uncertainly. "I don't want to interrupt your time."

For the first time in a long while, John took a moment to study Donovan. He recalled that Greg had mentioned that Donovan seemed rather listless for the past few months, but this was beyond mere exhaustion. It was almost like he was looking at a picture of what he had looked like, a few months ago.

The same hollow expression, the same passiveness, the same haggard appearance.

_Come to think about it, when was the last time he had seen Donovan smile?_

John sighed as Donovan still kept her eyes downcast. "Look, I'm not going to bite your head off or anything! Do you really think I am going to fight with you in front of Sherlock's grave?" John said.

"Sherlock may like it, especially if you slapped me across the face." Donovan muttered.

John froze. "I don't hit women. _Ever!_"

"Not even when they deserve it?" Donovan asked. Her voice continued to stay low, without any emotion.

John walked over until he stopped a few feet away from the sergeant. "I already said. _I don't hit women._"

The two stood in uncomfortable silence for a few moments before Donovan raised her eyes to look at John. "Can I ask you something? Why did you say that?"

"What?" John asked. "About not hitting women?"

"NO!" Donovan said, rolling her eyes. "What you said at that first meeting, with Sherlock's brother. That you were willing to work with me. _Why?_"

John was taken aback. Although he and Sally had been cordial enough with each other after that first meeting and had often ran into each other when John dropped by Scotland Yard to get an update on their progress, Donovan had seemed determined to stay as far away as possible from John.

Whenever he visited Greg, she would race off, claiming that she needed to check on a lead or review some case notes. In fact, John had barely been in Donovan's presence for more than a few minutes at a time, and even then their interactions were kept to a minimum.

Since John was not particularly fond of Donovan's company in the past, he was rather relieved when she left him alone.

_But now…_

"Well, you said you wanted to make up for doubting Sherlock. Like I said, catching the people responsible is more important to me than anything else."

"_For doubting Sherlock?_ Don't you mean when I accused him of hurting those kids, caused him to be arrested, called him a _freak_ all the time? Or how about when I helped Moriarty make him jump off the roof?" Donovan asked, her voice tainted with self-loathing.

John considered. Sometimes he asked himself that very question.

_Why was he working with Donovan?_

Even though he had to admit, Donovan had been working tirelessly in her spare time to come up with evidence to imprison several Moriarty's known associates. She was the one who organize the sting a few days ago that lead to several of Moriarty's men being locked away, and the evidence she gathered would stand firm in the face of any inquiry.

She was trying hard to atone for her own part in Sherlock's death.

"May I ask _you_ a question?" John inquired.

"Go ahead." Donovan replied, her voice lapsing once more into the emotionless tenor from before.

"Did you truly believe Sherlock kidnapped and hurt those kids?"

Donovan stared toward Sherlock's grave marker, eyes glistening with unshed tears. When she spoke again, her voice sounded garbled. "I remember little Claudette screaming when she saw him. Her _eyes_, she was so scared…_I did believe it, John_! I truly did! But if the same thing happened, and it was _Greg_ that the girl screamed at…"

"You would have still doubted that Lestrade was involved." John said quietly.

Donovan nodded miserably, rubbing her sleeve against her eyes to rid them of the incriminating moisture. "That is what haunts me the most! Sometimes I have nightmares. Sherlock is standing in front of me, covered with blood. And he is _screaming_! Just like she did!" Donovan shivered, as though she was cold, even though the air was exceptionally mild for that time of year.

"I know he must hate me, wherever he is. He was as much a victim as Claudette was. If I didn't let my dislike of the man cloud my judgment, if I could have went back and do things logically, I… I don't know!" Donovan trailed off.

John smirked. "Do you realize that you sounded like Sherlock, just now? Because that is what he was always telling me. That emotion can hinder a person's judgment."

"Yeah, well, that's _another_ thing Sherlock was right about! And another thing I was wrong about." She looked over at John, her face softening. "You were probably the best thing that ever happened to him, John. Before you came, he was insufferable! You changed that, John! And you changed him! I don't think he was happy until you showed up. No one even_ tried_ to understand him before."

John grinned slightly. It felt forced. "You really believed that you were doing the right thing, that day, didn't you?"

"Yes." Donovan whispered. She wasn't looking at John now, her eyes lingering on the black marble stone with the name of the man she had once despised inscribed on it. "At the time, I believed it. And now I'll spend the rest of my life regretting it."

John hated to see the woman beat herself up like this, so he attempted to console her. "You aren't really to blame, Sally. You know that. Moriarty had fooled everyone. It was his plan from the beginning. If it wasn't you, it would have been someone else."

"But it _was_ me! And nothing I do will ever make it right!" Donovan gritted her teeth. "But you didn't really answer my question. Why did you say what you said, earlier?"

John shrugged, trying to be causal about it. "Because I meant it. And I believe people can change for the better. You. Me. Sherlock. Everyone." John said, feeling his throat constricting.

"But have you ever made a mistake? One that you would do _anything_ to change, but you couldn't?" Donovan asked. Her eyes teared up again, and this time, she made no effort to wipe them away.

"Yes." John answered simply. "I have."

_I failed to protect Sherlock. And the last time we talked to each other face-to-face, I called him a machine. I hurt him._

"I am so sorry, John." Donovan said softly. "I know that what I did was unforgivable…"

"No. What _Moriarty_ did was unforgivable. You made a mistake. That's what people do. But that doesn't mean I hate you, Sally." John said.

And it was true. John did not hate Donovan. _Not anymore._

"And I'm sure Sherlock would tell you the same thing." John said quietly.

Mycroft had said something earlier about Sherlock seeing something in Donovan and Anderson that he respected. Something important enough that he was willing to keep them around, for all of their tactless comments and rude insults.

Maybe John would see it too.

_In time._

"Will you promise me that you will try to be a little easier on yourself? And stop avoiding me like the Black Death every time I come to see Greg?" John said, smiling a little.

"_What?_" Donovan asked, regarding him with wide eyes.

John snorted. "Sergeant, every time you and I are in the same room together, you won't even look in my direction. I'm starting to think _you_ are mad at _me_."

Donovan looked down guiltily. "Sorry about that. I…well, I don't know what to say to you. And I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I mean, you have more right to be involved than I do."

John frowned as another thought crossed his mind. "I do have one more question. Why did you go through your case notes again? Your interview notes with that little girl?"

Donovan smiled sadly. "I did it because of you."

John looked at Donovan in amazement. "_What?_"

Donovan nodded, looking back at Sherlock's gravesite. "You were so certain he was innocent, even when everything suggested otherwise! So I asked myself, was _I _so certain I was right? I guess you know my answer to that." Donovan smirked a little. "Do you think Sherlock would like you being so nice to the _enemy_?"

John laughed. The tightening that was in his chest upon first running into Donovan had loosened away, leaving him relaxed and feeling slightly giddy. "I think he would be ok with it. He could have had you and Anderson transferred several times, but he didn't."

Donovan nodded. "I wish he was around so I could ask him why."

"Maybe because it is as Mycroft says. Maybe he saw something in you and Anderson that he thought was worth keeping around. Maybe he needed people to work against. I don't know. I _lived_ with the man for almost two years! And I still couldn't get the full measure of him." John answered calmly.

Donovan nodded. "Thank you, John. For giving me this chance. I don't care how long it takes, but we will find every single member of that bastard's organization, even if it takes the rest of my career!"

John smiled back. This time, it reached his eyes. "We will. And we will make them pay for what they've done."

Donovan smiled a little. "At least we don't have to deal with the Black Lotus anymore. That's something. Oh, and has Greg told you yet? Jenkins, one of our forensic examiners, has retired, and we hired a new guy to take his place. His name is Dr. Clarkson, and he's one of the people involved in taking Moriarty's operation down in America."

"Oh?" John asked, surprised. "Did Mycroft bring him over?"

"No. Apparently the bloke decided to move over here and was looking for work when the position opened up. You'll probably meet him soon. From what I've heard, he's a real nutter!" Donovan confided.

John laughed. "Then he should fit right in!"

Donovan nodded, then glanced at her watch. "My break's almost over. I got to go. But it's been good talking to you, John. I mean that. And I'm sorry I interrupted your visit."

John shook his head good-naturedly. "Don't worry about it. All I do is sit around and moan and groan about the hardness of life. I'm sure Sherlock appreciates the change. He would probably tell me how dull I was becoming."

Donovan laughed quietly. It was the type of laugh that people do when they are unsure how to respond. "I'll see you later, then." And with that, Donovan walked away from the gravesite, leaving John alone with his own thoughts.

John watched Donovan go as far as the trees before turning back to Sherlock's marble tombstone. "Well, that was interesting, don't you think?"

_Just for the record, John, you know you can talk to Sally. I don't blame her for what happened. You shouldn't either._ Imaginary Sherlock whispered to John.

_I don't blame her anymore. But I am still angry, that she called you a freak and everything_. John mentally answered as he gazed at Sherlock's grave.

_I didn't care, John. And it's not her fault she is like everyone else. Which is to say, she's an idiot. But she's making some improvement._ Imaginary Sherlock retorted back.

_Do you hate anyone, Sherlock?_ John asked quietly.

_Hate is an emotion. And I don't do emotions._ Sherlock whispered back.

John chuckled at the gravesite. "I think we all know that is a lie! You were many things, Sherlock, but you were never a sociopath!"

_But I am, John. I don't feel emotions like other people do. I don't care about other people._ Imaginary Sherlock shot back.

"Then why did you jump off that roof to save me?" John said aloud, then looked around to see if anyone was spying on the crazy man talking to himself.

_Because you were never 'just a person,' John. You were a lot more._ Sherlock whispered back.

John was unable to come up with an argument to that. Sometimes there were disadvantages with hearing the voice of your dead friend in your head.

Especially when the dead friend continued to win most of the arguments.

* * *

"Tell us the truth, Hardy!" Moran barked, as the man sobbed before him uncontrollably. "Who is your contact? And where is Ms. Morray?"

Hardy gasped for breath. "_Please!_ I don't know what you are talking about!"

"Oh, I think you do, Hardy." Moriarty grinned wickedly from his chair, a few feet away from the terrified man who was tied down to the hard wooden chair. One of his hands was bleeding badly, the result of having each of his finger nails systematically pulled out, one right after the other.

"Now, Hardy, I'm a _very_ reasonable man. You know that. All I want to know is where Ms. Morray is, and then you are free to go. I give you my word." Moriarty said calmly.

"I never talked to Ms. Morray!" Hardy sobbed. "_Please_, I swear! I never met her! _I don't know where she is!_"

"_Wrong answer!_" Moriarty said cheerfully. He turned back to his second-in-command. "Moran, I think now is the time that we need to be more persuasive, hmm?"

In answer, Moran walked across the room and opened the steel-enforced door, allowing two blank-faced men to enter.

"Now, these two associates of mine are going to demonstrate the fine art of slow slicing on you, Hardy." Moriarty said calmly as the two men began to pull out various knives from a suitcase and laid them on a table. "Now, _slow slicing_, or _death by a thousand cuts_, was a form of execution used in China from roughly 900 AD, until it was abolished in 1905. First, the torturer, wielding an extremely sharp knife, will begin by putting out the eyes. This will render you incapable of seeing the remainder of the torture and, presumably, adding considerably to the psychological terror of the procedure."

Hardy wailed loudly. "_I swear! I am innocent! I never would betray you, Sir!_"

Moriarty continued, oblivious to the man's frantic denials. "The torturer then inflicts minor cuts by chopping off ears, nose, tongue, fingers, toes, and so on before proceeding to deeper cuts that removed larger sections of flesh from more sizable parts, including the thighs and shoulders. The entire process was said to last three days, and to total 3,600 cuts. The heavily carved bodies of the deceased were then put on a parade for a show in the public."

Hardy began to thrash around wildly as one of the men grabbed him in a chock hold while the other came slowly towards him, a slim knife in hand. His screams were incoherent as his eyes rolled wildly around.

"Now, Mr. Hardy. Let's try this again. _Where is Morray?_" Moriarty whispered.

* * *

"That was so _dull!_" Moriarty pouted. "I was _so_ looking forward to observe the slow slicing procedure in action, and then he has to go and die on us! He didn't even last sixteen hours!"

Moran stared at his boss uncertainly. "And he still insisted he didn't know where Ms. Morray was hiding."

Moriarty sighed impatiently. "_Somebody_ is supplying her with information! How else could she have known about the Tunis Operation? We organized it just a few days ago, and the authorities were waiting for us!"

"If it wasn't Hardy, then who else could it be?" Moran pondered. "Cray knew about the Tunis Operation. And Reynolds."

"Cray has already been disposed of." Moriarty said suggestively, grinning like the cat who caught the canary before his face fell again. "We probably need to find Reynolds. For a polite chat, of course."

"Of course." Moran said stoically.

Moriarty considered his second-in-command out of the corner of his eye. "Don't think for a moment that I suspect you, Sebastian. You have always been so loyal."

"Thank you, Sir." Moran said softly.

Moriarty blinked slowly. "You have something to say, Seb. Just go ahead and say it."

Moran gritted his teeth. "It's just that we are still no closer to finding out who the traitor is! And while I know you have your reasons, Jim, this is slowly killing the network! Word is spreading that you have become obsessed with finding the one who is betraying us! That you don't care about the business anymore! When we approached the Yakuza and the Triads about becoming partners with us and replacing the Black Lotus, they both turned us down! Half of our investors have withdrawn their funds! Word is out that we can no longer get the job done!"

Moriarty smiled calmly, like a mother indulging a whining child. "Sebastian, Sebastian. You _worry_ too much! This is simply a difficult adjustment period. Once we find Danielle and root out her spies, then all will go back to normal. In the meantime, I suggest that we continue to go along with our plans."

"And which plans are those?" Moran asked, his heart already dreading the answer.

Moriarty's return grin was equivalent to that of a snake, just before it devours its prey alive. "We must now return to London."

* * *

**Author's Note**: I'm not really happy with this chapter. I was hoping to show a glimpse into John's life. Yes, things are going better for him (he's in a relationship, and his sister is doing much better), but he still misses Sherlock, and remains dedicated to going after Moriarty's empire. So no, John has obviously not forgotten Sherlock.

To all of the Johnlock fans, sorry! In this story, Sherlock and John were friends. They did love each other, but more as brothers than anything romantic. I don't have anything against Johnlock stories, by the way! But as I said before, the characters are in control of this story, not me, so I just do what they tell me to do!

I know some people hate Donovan, but I think that she has been unfairly marginalized by the writers of the "Sherlock" series. I think she has more depth, and tried to show her in a more sympathetic light, now that she realizes the role she played in Sherlock's death.

Also, the torture method is real (not a sick manifestation of my mind). I found it on wikipedia, and thought that it was something the Moriarty would do. So I apologize if it sickened or repulsed anyone!

**Disclaimer:** I. Do. Not. Own. "Sherlock!" (gasp). Now _that_ is torture!

**James Moriarty**-Oh, please! I can be much more creative than that!

**Peaceful Defender**-(sighs in annoyance) Oh, joy to my world! _You're back!_ Oh, and I see you brought your pet with you! (waves off in a distance) Hey, Moran! Next time you are getting into a position to shoot me, tell your boss not to give your direction away by looking up towards you!

**Sebastian Moran** (yelling from a distance)-James! She _knows_ I'm here!

**James Moriarty**-Calm down, Seb! I'm just here to have a pleasant chat with Peaceful Defender. Just stay up there and keep your gun pointed at her in case she tries something!

**Peaceful Defender** (muttering under her breath)-In case _I_ try something? Please!

**James Moriarty** (Turns back to Peaceful Defender)-You know, we are alike, you and I!

**Peaceful Defender**-Oh, so we go from "I want to kill you" to "keep the gun locked on her, Seb!" to "we are alot alike!" Let me guess what's on your mind! "Say, Peaceful Defender, why don't you write the story where I win at the end"?

**James Moriarty**-See! We even _think_ alike! And you have to admit, that will shock your readers! It will be fun!

**Peaceful Defender**-Uh, have you been paying attention? _I_ don't even know where this story is going! And besides, you will probably send your pet back to shoot me anyway! So enough with the charm for one moment and threats the next! It is freaking me out! Can't you make up your mind?

**James Moriarty**-Nope! I'm _so_ changeable! But we _are_ both misunderstood by society, what with me being a consulting criminal, and you being a solictitor...

**Sebastian Moran** (shouts from his sniper vantage point)-_What!_ Peaceful Defender is a _lawyer!_

**James Moriarty** (smirking) Obviously! What other strange, twisted mind would resurrect me and create a character like Chase Douglas?

**Peaceful Defender**-_Hey!_ I may be an attorney, but that's just my job! I really am a nice person! I swear!

**Sebastian Moran** (yelling) Let me kill her now, James! You don't want an attorney writing this story! Who knows what she will end up doing to us!

**James Moriarty**-True, but I am full of morbid curiosity as to where she goes with this.

**Peaceful Defender** (sighs) Well, since you are here, you might as well answer some questions that has been bothering my readers. Who exactly is Danielle Morray to you? And why are you suddenly gone all obsessed on us to find her?

**James Moriarty** (smiles)-Now, now! You know the rules! You can't find out unless someone reviews this chapter! So unless someone writes a review, you will die! From suspense!

**Peaceful Defender** (cringing) Or from boredom from listening to you! Hopefully, someone will review soon and I can get rid of you!


	9. Chapter 8

**Note: Violence and gore in this chapter. You have been warned!**

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Bleeding Hearts**

"No one who, like me, conjures up the most evil of those half-tamed demons that inhabit the human breast, and seeks to wrestle with them, can expect to come through the struggle unscathed." Sigmund Freud, _Dora: An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria_

* * *

_May 4__th__. One year after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

Amber paced around the dark alley, unseen by those walking by on London's streets. Despite the balmy weather, she shivered as chills gripped her body. Sweat poured down her face, ruining her make-up. Her lips were dry, and she huffed impatiently as she tapped the heel of her stiletto.

She hoped the person she was waiting for would get here soon. She should be working, after all! Her profession is hardly considered honorable, but it put money on the table, didn't it? Yes, it was prostitution, but so what? If the men wanted it, and were willing to pay for it, then why not?

One time, many years ago, a priest came up to her and swore vehemently that she was on the road to Hell, and she needed to stop with the sex and the drugs and repent her "sinful life."

He was an arse, obviously. One of those hypocrites who looked down on others and acted as if they were so much better than everyone else! She didn't take him seriously, and she still didn't, but she wished now that she actually considered leaving the streets behind, even of it was to work in a restaurant, serving fish and chips to tourists.

If she had, her life may not be in jeopardy now.

But she couldn't afford to dwell on that. She had to stay vigilant. Hopefully, her friend would show up soon, and she could leave here and get back to work.

She _hated_ standing here, exposed to the shadows.

_If he finds me…_

The woman, who went by her professional name of "Amber," had worked the streets for a few years. Being a prostitute, she had been through several dangerous situations in her life.

Like the time that jerk broke her ribs and threw her from his car while it was still moving.

Yeah, _that_ was bad.

But the situation she was in now was far more deadly than she could have believed. And not just for her…

_Footsteps._

Someone was coming.

Amber squinted into the darkened shadows. "Hello? Is anyone there? _Hello?_"

The steps suddenly went quiet. Amber stopped breathing as she looked around furtively.

_Maybe it was someone else, someone who just stepped into the alley by accident..._

Her hopes were dashed the second a hand clamped down hard against her mouth, cutting off any chance she had to scream. Her attacker, whoever he was, lifted her a few inches off the ground effortlessly.

Unable to make a sound, she flailed her arms and kicked wildly, but her blows had no effect, except to cause one of her stilettos to fail to the ground, revealing that she painted her toenails gold, with little pink flowers.

A knife jabbed quickly into Amber's side, causing her to go rigid with terror. Her pupils dilated as they gazed into cold, dark eyes.

The last sound she ever made was the feeble gurgle when she chocked on her own blood.

* * *

The anniversary when Sherlock jumped off the roof at Saint Bartholomew's hospital was not the dismal, depressing affair that John had dreaded.

Even after a year, the story of the legend that was Sherlock Holmes would occasionally crop back up. And today was certainly no exception.

Last night, some unknown persons painted various buildings with the message "**We Still Believe in Sherlock.**"

John strongly suspected that Raze, at least, was behind some of the messages. But he didn't mind. He knew he would be thinking about his friend today anyway.

And whoever did the messages were just trying to honor Sherlock's memory, in their own way.

The Sherlockians did not let the event go by unmarked, either. To commemorate the anniversary of Sherlock's sacrifice, they held a small graveside vigil earlier that day. Nothing like the march, of course. Just about a few dozen or so, made of Sherlockians and members of the Homeless Network. A few members of the Yard stood awkwardly near the edge of the crowd, wanting to be there but fearing they would be unwelcomed. But the rest of the group paid them no heed.

They held it very early in the morning, so the press would not be alerted. They wanted to recognize a good man, not make his anniversary of his death the stage for a media circus.

For his part, life was slowly returning to a state of bearable existence for John. Between the inquests, the secret meetings with Mycroft, and the convictions of several of Moriarty's minor employees, he had been rather busy for the last few months.

John still couldn't handle the thought of throwing Sherlock's belongings away, but as Mycroft was in no hurry to take them, John made Sherlock's room into a little museum of sorts, so that his things would not be damaged or destroyed by someone accidently breaking things. For the last few months, all of Sherlock's belongings had been carefully moved into Sherlock's bedroom.

The chemistry set and the microscope were set up on a foldable table and set off in one corner of Sherlock's bedroom. The books were stacked on the chest of drawers. The violin was carefully placed back into its case and set in the corner.

Mrs. Hudson, for reasons that John could never fathom, insisted on coming to Sherlock's room once a week to dust the room, even though she was the _landlady_ and not the _housekeeper _(as if John didn't know that already)_._

For all practical purposes, it looked like someone still occupied the room. John knew he should get rid of Sherlock's belongings and clothes, but never could bring himself to do it. It was almost like a declaration that he had finally gotten over the loss of his friend.

And that, of course, was something John didn't think he would ever be able to accomplish.

The skull, however, was not packed away, as it continued to have its place of honor on the mantle. Mary found it one day and was quite intrigued by it, telling John not to hide it because it gave the room "character."

She never seemed to mind the fact that John continued to mourn for Sherlock. It was Mary, after all, who convinced John to start writing in his blog again, detailing all the adventures he shared with Sherlock.

This, more than anything, helped him cope.

He even stopped going to the therapist. Her methods, well-meaning as they were, were useless.

_Just like before._

John had thought he would spend the day being miserable. Maybe stay home, curl up in bed, and wait for the day to be over. But his plans quickly were interrupted when Ms. Hudson came up, demanding that he and Mary join her for a breakfast of eggs and toast.

And then Dr. Anthuster called, begging him to come by because they were short on staff. John agreed, and the work went by swiftly but pleasantly enough.

Despite the chaos at the office, John even found time during his lunch break to visit Sherlock's grave to tell him how he was getting along. He spent nearly an hour there, not saying anything aloud as he held a silent conversation with his friend in the back of his mind.

He left the graveyard saddened, but at peace.

Mary met him after work and they went to Angelo's, who, as always, was thrilled to see John and pressed upon him to visit more often. They enjoyed their time there and Mary informed John that she had made arrangements to move into the flat at 221 C Baker Street permanently, unless John had any objections to having her as a new neighbor.

John, who admittedly was spending far too much time in Mary's flat than his own, had no objections.

If anything, he was looking forward to seeing Mary more.

All in all, it wasn't as bad a day as John had dreaded. He rather suspected that his landlady, his boss, and his girlfriend all conspired with each other to keep him busy throughout the day, so that he may not become overwhelmed by the emotions this anniversary would surely bring.

If they did plan it that was, then it worked. _To a point._

When they got home, John realized that he accidently left his wallet back at the restaurant, and went back to get it. Thankfully, Angelo found it and personally handed it back to John at the door.

John was now headed back, enjoying the peacefulness of the night and reflecting how so much had changed.

He still missed Sherlock. _Terribly._ At night, he would still wake up, drenched in sweat and gasping, from nightmares of seeing Sherlock jump to his death from the rooftop of Bart's.

Although lately, the dreams have started to change in content.

In one particularly disturbing nightmare, Bart's would be engulfed in flames, and it was Moriarty who jumped to his death. In those dreams, John stood, paralyzed, as he heard Sherlock's voice coming from somewhere inside Bart's, _screaming_ for help.

_Begging_ for help.

And he couldn't move.

_He couldn't run in and save him._

He wanted to so bad, even though the flames were hot, even though the smoke was thick. Any fear he had of losing his life was surpassed by the fear of losing Sherlock.

But try as he did, he found himself incapable of moving.

At the end of the dream, Sherlock screamed John's name once more before the blazing building collapsed on itself. Then John would wake up, tears falling down his face, as he struggled to breathe and calm down.

_If only Sherlock was still alive._

If only he had listened to John's wish and somehow faked his death, or came back from the dead, or Mycroft use his innumerable resources to resurrect his brother (although John would be the first to admit, the idea of the elder Holmes being able to do _that_ would be disturbing on a universal level).

But if Sherlock had come back, then he would have seen how much he was missed. How Anderson and Donovan focused less on people's shortcomings and more on their work. How Lestrade would absently flip through his phone, about to call Sherlock's cell, before remembering and putting the phone down, his face creased with heartache. How Mrs. Hudson would sneak upstairs and carefully clean and dust off Sherlock's belongings, as though Sherlock was merely on holiday, and would return any moment.

John's thoughts drifted back to Mary. He found himself imaging what would happen if he had the pleasure of having both Mary and Sherlock in his life.

_Would Sherlock have approved of Mary? Would he have been happy for John? Would Sherlock have allowed another person into his life, someone who admired him almost as much as John did?_

John was suddenly shaken out of his musings by a loud scream that rang out through the night. The retort of a pistol shot followed closely behind.

For a split second, John was back in Afghanistan, under enemy fire. Reflexively, he ducked his head. Eyes darting around, John watched a lone figure burst full speed out of one of the nearby alleys. In the brief glare of the overhead street light, John observed that the figure was dressed entirely in black, including a black ski mask that covered his entire head and face.

"Hey! You there! Stop!" John dropped his cane and raced after the figure. The person, whoever he was, sprinted through the deserted streets with speed that John was unable to match.

A few twists and turns later, John completely lost sight of the fleeing figure.

Leg throbbing and sweat pouring down his face, John cursed silently before limping back to the alleyway where he had heard the shot.

Walking cautiously, John spotted a figure standing at the entrance of the alleyway. It was a woman, with copper hair and unusual blue eyes that seemed to be a strange shade of purple. Her expensively tailored suite was ripped at the shoulder and near her edge of skirt. She was wearing a high fashioned shoe on one foot, while her other foot was bare. Her eyes were wide with panic, and she griped a pistol fearfully in both her hands.

"Miss? Are you alright? Should I call a hospital?" John said worriedly. The woman gazed out at him before turning her attention back to something in the alleyway.

"Call the police! Right now!" The woman said tersely before pointing her gun into the dark shadows in the alleyway. "Tell them there's been a murder!" The woman looked at John, eyes widened in terror. "_Please_!"

* * *

As if _tonight_ wasn't bad enough (considering what date it was), now Lestrade had a damn murder case on his hands to deal with!

"So, who is the victim?" Lestrade muttered as he ducked under the tape and into the alley.

"We don't know yet, Greg. But whoever did it is one sick bastard!" Hopkins reported. "He cut out the woman's throat and completely mutilated her!"

"Ugh! I _hate_ these cases! So what _do _we have?" Lestrade asked.

Hopkins pulled out his pad and ran through his notes. "Young woman, late teens to early twenties. No I.D. We think she may have been a prostitute. Violet was supposed to meet her here, but she got delayed. When she got here, she saw the perp already cutting into the victim's back."

Lestrade looked at his younger colleague curiously. "Did you say Violet? As in _Violet Hunter_, that reporter from Channel Ten News? The one you were with when you released that video?"

"Uh, yeah." Hopkins replied uneasily as he shifted from side to side on his feet. "I asked Donovan to interview her, because I didn't want to look like I was biased or anything. From the way she describes it, the perp was going to get her too, but she came armed."

"Have we ruled her out as a suspect?" Lestrade asked. Not that he seriously thought the reporter had anything to do with the case, but it was routine to question everyone at the scene.

Hopkins nodded. "Yes. You are not going to believe this, but John Watson was here when Violet sent that bastard running! He chased him for several blocks, but eventually lost sight of him!"

Lestrade was now extremely befuddled. "_John_ is here? _Hell_, when did this become a big reunion? Next you are going to tell me the perp was hit by a car driven by Mrs. Hudson!"

Hopkins barked out a humorless laugh. "_I wish!_ Then we could wrap this case up, and I can head back to the pub." Hopkins replied irritably.

"So where is John?" Lestrade asked, searching through the crowd and ignoring the flashing lights that came from the ambulances.

Hopkins looked over at the entrance of the alley. "Over there, with Donovan."

Lestrade nodded and walked over to the person next to Donovan. When he got close enough, he could make out the light hair and the characteristic jumper the man seemed to be so fond of wearing, even in the summertime.

"Hey, John! We seem to keep running into each other, don't we?" Lestrade said, trying to keep his voice light.

John turned away from Donovan, who had already pocketed her notebook and was heading to the police tape to keep the reporters from crossing the police line, indicating she was finished getting a statement from John. "Hi, Greg! We do seem to meet in the strangest places! What can I say? You may have to get me for stalking charges!"

Lestrade chuckled before his face turned grim. "What the bloody hell happened here, John?"

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I was going home when I heard a shot coming from this direction. I saw a man run out and I gave chase. I followed him for a bit, but he managed to lose me. I came back and found Ms. Hunter. I didn't recognize her, though, since that bastard roughed her up a bit before she fought him off. She told me to call you guys to report a murder. I did, and here you are."

"_Okay!_ Coming through! Crazy redneck walking! _Excuse me!_" A strangely accented voice rang out in the darkness.

John turned to see who it was who had interrupted his and Lestrade's conversation.

It was a man John had never seen before, about six feet tall, with a medium build. He had light, wavy brown hair and a mustache. His tan testified that he spent many hours outdoors. His jade-like eyes were alert and seemed to take in every detail. The man had a friendly continence, and he looked as though he was willing to make friends with you if you wanted, but he could care less if you didn't.

John thought that the man bore an odd resemblance to the actor who played "Gwaine" in the series "_Merlin_." Indeed, the man probably could have been mistaken for him, had the odd America accent not given him away.

The stranger was dressed practically, in jeans and a short sleeve shirt. He was carrying a bag that John recognized as often being used by forensic pathologists and was wearing protective latex gloves.

Before he could make any other observations, the stranger saw Lestrade and headed towards him.

"Hey, Greg! I got called in! Something about a murder. What are the details?"

"I haven't seen it myself, Clarky, but Stan said the body was mutilated." Lestrade answered.

"Do we know anything else?" The man asked. Judging by his appearance, he looked to be in his mid-thirties, close to John's age.

"Just that it is a female, and that she may have been a prostitute." Lestrade answered. Then he remembered the person beside him. "_Oh!_ I'm sorry, John! Hey, Clarky! I want you to meet Dr. John Watson. He's a friend of mine. John, this is Dr. Clarkson, the new forensic crime scene analyst that we have hired to replace Jenkins. He's from America."

"As if my pure-blooded, southern Tennessean accent didn't give me away!" The man said jokingly, pausing to take off one of his gloves to shake John's hand. "But please call me Clarky! Everyone else does! Or 'redneck', or 'American', or one of several words that need not be repeated in polite society!"

John grinned as he shook Clarky's hand. "I see that you are an animal lover, Clarky. You have at least one pet. And I see you were in the military. What branch, if I may ask?"

Clarky opened his mouth with amazement. "The U.S. Marine Corps! I served as a Corporal. And you're right! I _do_ have a pet. A cat! But how did you know that?"

John smiled. "As to you having a pet, you have grey hairs on the bottom on your trouser legs. As to your military service, I saw that by your stance and the way you walk. I was in the military as well, as a Captain and a medical doctor. Before I got shot, that is."

"Really?" Clarky said, looking interested. "Where did you serve?"

"Afghanistan." John said.

"_Hey!_ Me too! _Wow!_ Small world, isn't it? I bet we probably were stationed near each other and didn't even know it!" Clarky replied. "So, are you with forensics, too?"

Lestrade coughed. "Actually, Clarky, Doctor Watson is a medical doctor, although he sometimes helps out at crime scenes. He is respected by everyone in the Yard."

John felt his face flush slightly. He enjoyed Lestrade's praise of course, but it made him a very uncomfortable.

_It was Sherlock who helped the Yard. Not me._

Clarky nodded. "Well, Dr. Watson, any time you see me, never be afraid to come and say hello! I never mind it when other people are around, as long as the crime scene is not disturbed, of course. Just don't get offended if I say anything weird. I don't have a translator, and I only know one language; _Southern American English._"

John laughed. "I understand about that! I happen to know an American. A young man named Chase Douglas. When I mentioned I like to wear jumpers a lot, he asked me why I wore girls' clothing! After talking a bit, I found out that 'jumpers' are something completely different in America. I believe you call what I wear '_sweaters_', am I right?"

Clarky smirked. "Right! Actually, I had an English colleague back in the States! You see, back home, we refer to jeans and slacks as '_pants_.' I understand they mean something else entirely in England. The poor guy gave us the weirdest look and asked us why we were talking about _underwear_!" Clarky chuckled good-naturedly at the memory. "But the guy was the smartest man I ever met! He observed things too, like you just did. Must be an English thing! Maybe it's all the tea you guys drink!"

_Looks like I learned a few useful things from Sherlock._ John thought.

"Maybe it is because we actually take time to look around and not shoot at things, _red neck!_" Hopkins yelled back from his position near the crime scene.

Clarky rolled his eyes and called back to Hopkins. "But _Stanley_, where's the fun in _that?_"

Giving a nod to John, Clarky grinned. "Poor Stan is under the sad delusion that all Americans shoot first and ask questions later! Actually, it's only the southern rednecks that do that!" Clarky said humorously. "Well, it's been a pleasure, Dr. Watson! Perhaps one of these days we can meet up and trade battle stories!"

"Sounds good." John said politely. "Maybe we will."

Clarky nodded again before heading toward the crime scene, loudly exchanging good-natured insults with Hopkins.

"Is that the 'nutter' that Sally was telling me about a few weeks ago?" John asked, turning to Lestrade for confirmation.

Lestrade smiled as he watched Clarky go. "Yes! He's from a state called Tennessee, and he's a bit crazy, but he's great at what he does! But completely different from Anderson! You know how Anderson is so serious all the time? Can't stand to have anyone question his methods?"

John nodded.

Lestrade grinned. "Well, Clarky is his polar opposite! The man _never_ takes himself seriously! A few weeks ago, we found a body in a freezer that the killer had cut into pieces to make it fit better. Clarky pulls out one of the victim's arms and asked Anderson to _'give him a hand.'_"

John giggled despite himself. "I bet Anderson had an aneurism!"

Lestrade smirked. "Anderson yelled at him and called him every name in the book! But it didn't faze Clarky at all! He got the other arm out and used it to give Anderson applause!"

"I bet Anderson didn't take that well!" John observed, smirking.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "He didn't. But Clarky's not a bad bloke, even if his jokes sometimes freak us out! As I have said, he's _very_ good at what he does! He has been doing this type of thing for years. He says that back where he is from, people develop what he calls 'gallows humor' in order to cope with the stress of the job. He keeps us laughing, if anything. He even made Sally laugh two days ago, and I haven't seen her do that in a long while!"

John looked back to where Clarky already processing the crime scene. "He seems like a good bloke. Sally mentioned that he was involved in taking that Dr. Smith into custody!"

Lestrade nodded. "He helped mastermind the takedown, along with American authorities over there. One of his co-workers, some bloke that Clarky calls 'Lucky,' went undercover and got Dr. Smith to give a confession on tape. Then Clarky and the FBI put Dr. Smith into custody." Lestrade commented.

John looked at Lestrade in confusion. "Why did he come over here for?"

Lestrade smirked. "It's just a guess, but I suspect that Molly had something to do with it!"

John's mouth fell open. "_Molly?_ As in _Dr. Molly Hooper?_"

Lestrade nodded. "Turns out Molly's been keeping a few secrets from us! She met Clarky a long time ago, when he came over here for a week to gather research for his thesis or something like that. Molly was still in school at the time, working on her doctorate. Then she saw him again when she went over to America for a seminar. Somehow, they have managed to keep in contact with one another for the last few years. They became friends, and stayed that way even though they lived on opposite ends of the globe."

Glancing around to make sure there was no one else nearby, Lestrade lowered his voice. "Between you and me, Clarky _really_ likes Molly!"

"And by _like_, I take it that you don't mean in the platonic sense." John guessed.

"Just look at them when they are in the same room together. You'll see what I mean." Lestrade answered, glancing around to make sure no one overheard them. "For one thing, Molly seems very happy! She is alot more outspoken than she used to be! Plus, Clarky spends _way_ too much time at Bart's than what he would need to!"

"Maybe they are just good friends." John said quietly.

Lestrade shook his head, grinning. "How many good friends do you know go out to dinner or stay at each other's flat at least once a week?"

John smiled. He hadn't seen much of Molly since the Bart's tape had aired, and had not seen her at all in the last few months. It was almost as though she was avoiding people.

But from the way Lestrade was describing things, she seemed to have found some measure of happiness, even after Sherlock's death.

* * *

Oblivious to the fact he was the topic of conversation, Dr. Edward Clarkson IV processed the scene of the horrifying murder with quiet efficiency, mentally going over everything he needed to do.

There were pictures to be taken. Evidence to be collected. Blood splatter evidence to be cataloged, measured, and analyzed. Witness statements to track down.

The list was long, but it had to be done if the poor woman in front of him was to have any justice.

"What do you make of it, Clarky?" Donovan asked a few feet away.

Clarky carefully circled the corpse. "A young woman, no I.D. found at the scene. Her throat was slashed first, judging by the bleeding. The killer was right handed, and he cut her trachea but missed her carotid artery. The poor woman was rendered mute by her injury. To keep her from screaming. However, this guy had to have been tall. Very tall. I say over six feet, maybe closer to seven feet in height. See those bruises on her neck? The angle of the cut? It's almost as though the man lifted her up a few inches before he sliced her throat. Hence, he had to have been taller than her."

Donovan nodded grimly. Clarky continued on with his preliminary examination.

"The ridges of the cut look like they came from a serrated blade. Then the killer stabbed her repeatedly, maybe a dozen times in the chest. The victim was alive for a while and tried to fight him off, as is evident by the cuts on her hands and arms, but she eventually succumbed to blood loss."

Clarky swallowed before continuing. "Then, after she passed on, the bastard took another tool out, probably a scalpel, and removed her heart. See the cut here? He cut under her rib cage, where he would have an easier time extracting the heart from the rest of the body. Her blood had stopped pumping by then, which explains why this wound has less blood than the others."

Donovan grimanced. "So he knew what he was doing."

Clarky nodded before continuing his analysis. "The organ was then placed a few feet away from the body, where he set it on fire, using an accelerant of some sort. From the smell, I would say it was kerosene, probably to cut down on the amount of smoke. But not much. Probably carried it in a small bottle, a flask, or something like that, to avoid suspicion. I don't see a gas can anywhere, and the guy probably didn't run from the scene with one in his hand, so that makes sense. Finally, the perpetrator ripped off the back of her shirt and carved something into her back. Again, it was done post mortem."

"Three numbers. Three 'sixes.'" Donovan muttered. She wrinkled her nose as she tried to ignore the smell of burnt flesh that came from the smoldering lump that was once the woman's heart.

"Yeah. A Satanist, perhaps?" Clarky wondered aloud. "But if so, why _her_, and why here?"

"When I interviewed her, Ms. Hunter, a reporter and a witness, said that she knew the woman went by the street name of _Amber_. A few hours ago, Amber contacted Violet and told her to meet her here, that she had something important to tell her." Donovan shuddered at the bloody carnage she was seeing. This crime scene was one of the most gruesome she had ever witnessed.

_And that was saying a lot._

"Looks like she never got the chance. Poor girl! So when Ms. Hunter showed up, the killer was carving into the victim's back?" Clarky asked.

Donovan nodded. "The guy grabbed her and tried to drag her towards him. She managed to grab a gun she carries around for protection and shot it at him. He let her go and ran off."

"Well, that will explain the shoe prints over here." Clarky said, pointing to the scuffed dirt near the body. "At least a size twelve, probably bigger, from the looks of them. I guess Ms. Hunter is lucky she is not the second victim!"

"I think one person is bad enough! But I agree with you, Clarky! What kind of sick bastard does this?"

Clarky shrugged and shook his head sadly. "The world is full of bad people, Sally! However, I _can_ tell you this. Whoever did this was no doctor. A hunter, maybe, but not someone trained in removing organs. I can tell by the way the heart was removed. The carving of the muscles, the tendons…it's a bloody mess. No pun intended, of course." Clarky stood up silently. "Although a doctor could just be disguising it by being sloppy. But I personally think that it was someone who hasn't been specifically trained, based on the blade involved."

"And that's important?" Donovan asked.

"After the _Smith_ case back home, medical training is one of the first things I look for." Clarky said quietly, reflecting on the case that made him something of a celebrity back home. Not that he particularly cared, of course.

"Are you thinking there is a connection with Dr. Smith and this case?" Donovan asked incredulously.

Clarky shook his head. "No! There is no proof of that, as far as I can see! But it's sad that the first thing I look for is whether the killer is a doctor or not, but after spending several months reviewing corpses whose organs have been removed. I thought I left that behind. _Hell_, I almost lost my faith in doctors a while back, so I am glad _this_ bastard isn't one! It would be _way_ too much of a coincidence for me! I need to be around some good doctors again to restore my faith in the profession as a whole, or I'll need to learn old fashioned remedies, such as weird herbs in my tea or something!"

Donovan nodded. "Well, if you need that, then go hang around John Watson for a while! If anyone can renew your faith in humanity, it will be him."

Clarky looked at her curiously. "You seem like you are speaking from experience."

Donovan nodded seriously. "I am."

* * *

Violet Hunter was still shaken from her ordeal, but that didn't stop her from relating what she knew to the Yard.

The reporter pushed a strand of her coppery hair aside as she repeated her story yet again, obviously exhausted but determined to do it for her friend's sake. "This morning, Amber, one of my contacts, calls me on my cell phone and tells me she has something very important to tell me. But it was something she didn't want to discuss on the phone. She wanted to speak to me right away. But I had my show, and some interviews, so I scheduled the meeting for tonight. I told her I would meet her here, since this was near the area where she worked." Violet related wearily.

She was sitting in the back of the ambulance, where the EMTs had already put butterfly sutures on the cut on her cheek where her attacker had managed to cut her before she pushed him away and reached for her pistol. Lestrade was asking a few follow-up questions before she went to the emergency room to be checked out.

"So she _was_ a prostitute." Lestrade confirmed.

"She was a woman who was forced to work the streets because she had few other opportunities!" Violet replied heatedly, her eyes blazing. "Her real name is Amy Richardson, but she went by her middle name, Amber. I hope you will remember that, and not treat her as just another statistic!"

"Ms. Hunter, please! I meant no disrespect for your friend. But everything about her life needs to be examined. She could have been killed by a former lover, for all we know!" Lestrade said, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

"What kind of lover cuts numbers into a woman's back?" Violet shot back.

"That's what we are trying to find out. Did she say _why_ she needed to see you?" Lestrade asked.

Violet shook her head. "She said she was afraid to say more over the phone. That someone was watching her, but that she had found out something important. Now, Amber has lived a rough life. Few things scared her. But she was afraid this morning! I could tell it in her voice."

Lestrade nodded. "I know you already spoken with the other officers, but is there anything else you can remember about the perpetrator?"

Violet shook her head. "All I can say for sure is that he was tall. He was dressed entirely in black. Black shirt, black trousers, black ski mask over his face. But he was very tall, over six feet, almost seven feet tall, I think. That's about all I could see."

Lestrade nodded. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a card. "If you remember something, anything at all, will you call this number? You can ask for me, or, if you prefer, Inspector Hopkins."

Violet nodded wearily. "I promise I will contact the Yard if I remember anything else. Just promise me you will get the bastard who did this!"

"We'll do our best. If you will excuse me, Ms. Hunter." Lestrade said politely before walking away. He pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket and began to dial a number before abruptly shoving it back into his pocket.

He was about to call Sherlock's cell before he remembered that Sherlock was no longer here to pick up.

_This case was definitely one Sherlock would have liked, although he would probably have this case solved in a few hours. Then he would tell me how simple it was and why I am an idiot for wasting his time! _

_God, I miss that boy, no matter how he drove me insane! Too bad he's not around to help this time. _

_And I am to blame for that._

A familiar pain hit Lestrade's side as his ulcer acted up, the way it always did when he was under a lot of stress. He felt it too when he remembered Sherlock, and his guilt threatened to chock him whenever he recalled the part he played in Sherlock's death.

The worst thing was not that Sherlock jumped to save Greg, although that alone was bad enough to bare.

No, the worst thing was knowing that when Sherlock jumped to his death, he believed that Lestrade thought him to be a fraud.

But he couldn't focus on that now. Later, perhaps, when he was at home. Then he could cry and down a bottle or two. But not now.

He had to get his mind back on the case.

This was not a random killing. Lestrade knew that. Even if a jilted lover may cut his lover's throat and then mercilessly extract the heart and set it ablaze, he was at a loss to explain the triple sixes that were etched into Amber's bare flesh.

It simply made no sense.

But few things in this life made sense anyway.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Damn the criminal population! Can't they let Sherlock's friends mourn the one-year anniversary in peace?

Who is this killer? Why slit someone's throat, stab them to death, cut their heart out of their chest, burn it a few meters away from the body, and then write numbers into the victim's back? What does "666" stand for?

Is Lestrade right? Is this a sign of things to come?

By the way, the internal monologue with Amber at the beginning should not be construed in such a way to reflect that I believe she deserved to die. She was a victim. No more and no less, and like Violet, I don't think her lifestyle or career choice meant that she was more deserving of being killed than anyone else.

Once again, I appreciate everyone who has taken the time to read this story!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." Ugh! This disclaimer is becoming redundant!

**OC Clarky**-Wow! And I thought the Smith case was pretty bad!

**Peaceful Defender**-Ah, my newest original character! So, Clarky, how are you liking London?

**OC Clarky**-Can't complain! Still trying to learn everything, though! For example, did you know that American biscuits and British biscuits are two completely different things?

**Peaceful Defender**-I know! It's confusing sometimes, with all the Americanisms v. British talk! But enough of that! I see that you are from Tennessee! My home state!

**OC Clarky**-Hell yeah! Beautiful country, home of the Tennessee Volunteers, and we _never_ get bored!

**Peaceful Defender**-Did you _really_ give Anderson an applause using the decapitated hands of a murder victim?

**OC Clarky** (smirking)-_Maybe!_ The guy is so uptight all the time! He looks like he's constipated or something! He needs to lighten up, take a joke, get a life!

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, we will need to see more of you in order to see if you are sane, or if you are nutter, like Donovan said you are. Who knows, you might even be crazier than Chase Douglas! And with reviews, we will learn the answer that much quicker!

**OC Clarky**-What's wrong with being crazy? I like being crazy! And who is Chase Douglas, anyway? When do I meet him?

**Peaceful Defender**-We will see!


	10. Chapter 9

**Warning: Descriptions of torture, and a little romance in the morgue! Read at your own risk.**

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Casualties of Love and War **

"Women's eyes have pierced more hearts than ever did the bullets of war." William Scott Downey, _Proverbs_

* * *

Lestrade's instincts turned out to be correct. Amber was the first victim of the killer the media dubbed the "Satanic Slasher."

But she was not the last.

Over the next few months, London was engulfed in fear as permeable as the humid air as the body count continued to rise. By the end of August, seventeen victims fell to the Satanic Slasher.

There seemed to be no pattern. The victims had no apparent connection with one another and no similarity. They ranged in age from a thirteen year old homeless girl to a seventy-two year old businessman. Male and female, young and old, from different economic, social, and ethnic backgrounds. Most of victims were walking through the streets when they were taken, although a few were known to be home, only to be drug out of their beds at night and be found in the streets the next morning.

Except for the fact that all of the killings happened at night, there seemed to be no pattern as to the times that the killer chose to attack, either. One week, there would be no victims, while another week may have three, only to be followed with just one victim the next week after that.

However, the method of killing was always the same.

The victim would be found in an abandoned alley, throat cut to stop the victim from screaming. Then the victim would be stabbed repeated until they succumbed to death from trauma and extreme blood loss. Then, the heart would be removed and sat on fire, to be placed a few feet away from the victim. Finally, the numbers "666", with the middle number raised slightly higher than the other two, almost as though they were arranged in a triangle.

London, in short, was under siege.

Lestrade went to Mycroft to ask if there was any way that the CCTV system could be used to track down the killer, only to learn that someone was mysteriously shutting down the footage on all the screens. It was only for a few hours at a time, but each time corresponded with the timing of one of the murders.

Mycroft did what he could, and called to alert the Yard every time the system went down. But with the overall size and population of London, it was impossible to pinpoint the next probable location where the killer would strike.

The Scotland Yard Metropolitan Police patrolled the streets in shifts, constantly on the lookout for anyone who could be the Slasher. Meanwhile, ordinary civilians traveled in groups, or used public transportation. Suspects were rounded up and brought in for questioning, only to be systematically ruled out. Events were canceled, and people began to sleep with guns in easy reach.

And the body count continued to rise.

* * *

_September 12._ _ One year and four months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

"Good afternoon, John. I have news that will be of great interest to you." Mycroft said. Despite his usual pompous personae, there was an undercurrent of excitement in Mycroft's manner.

"Mycroft." John greeted quickly and sat down at the table at the Diogenes Club. He received a text message asking him to come there for a private meeting with Mycroft and Chase.

Personally, he was looking forward to it. With so little headway being made on the Satanic Slasher case, it was good to keep track of the deterioration of Moriarty's web, which only seemed to be accelerating as the months flew by.

"Hey! John! Good to see you!" Chase greeted as he flipped open his laptop.

"And you as well, Chase." John said politely. "So. What's going on?"

"I have just received word that one of Moriarty's lieutenants, a gentleman by the name of Charles Milverton, has been found dead in his manor in Venice, Italy just a few days ago. He was shot several times in the chest and died almost instantly. The perpetrators also destroyed everything that was located in his safe. Incriminating documents, pictures, disks, his personal computer, all of it was found in the fireplace, amongst the ashes." Mycroft leaned back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.

"How do you know it was _perpetrators _and not one person?" John asked.

Mycroft smiled slightly. "Because they were spotted leaving the area. One woman, who I have already identified, followed a few minutes later by two masked figures, whose identities remain a mystery. I have already spoken to the lady and found out she was the one who killed Milverton. She was a former victim of his, you see. When she could not pay the exuberant amount that he demanded, Milverton released some information that caused the woman much embarrassment, as well as indirectly causing the woman's husband to die from heart complications."

John nodded understandingly.

"For many years, she lived with her bitterness until she finally decided to take her revenge. Do not ask me her name or where she is now, John. As far as I am concerned, the woman has suffered enough at the hands of the odious blackmailer, and turning the matter over to the police would result in other victims being hurt as well." Mycroft explained.

"How about the two people who left later? What were _they_ doing there?" John asked.

"That is the question I would like answered. After talking to the unfortunate woman, she told me that she left soon after confronting Milverton. I thus deduce that these two persons, whoever they may be, were present and stood by unseen when Milverton was 'disposed of.' After she left, they chose to destroy the materials accumulated over the years by Milverton. Allow me to show you some video footage that my security team sent to me."

Turning to Chase, Mycroft waved his hand. "Mr. Douglas, if you would, please."

"Sure thing, DMP!" Chase said, positioning his laptop to where John could see it. "Now, this Milverton guy was holding a masquerade ball earlier that night. Something rich people do, I guess! Personally, I think time would be better spent at a nightclub, but..."

"Mr. Douglas. Focus, please!" Mycroft huffed.

Chase flushed crimson. "Sorry, DMP! Anyway, what you are seeing here is footage of the guests arriving."

John squinted as he looked at the screen. Several dozen people were coming in, the gentlemen in ornate tuxedos and military uniforms, while the ladies were adorned in beautiful ball gowns of the classical Old European Style.

All were wearing decorated party masks.

"Now, do you see these two right here? The man and the woman on the steps?" Chase said, pointing them out.

"The man with the Colonel uniform and the woman in the red dress?" John asked.

"Yeah. They gave their names as Colonel Lorenzo Bianchi and his wife, Giulia. Obviously not their real names, of course! Anyway, they went in, socialized, burnt up the dance floor, and do whatever the heck they do at these things! Now I will skip to the end, where everyone is leaving."

John watched the video in silence for a few minutes before it dawned on him. "The couple never left the party."

Chase grinned. "_Exactly!_ Now, fast forward to a couple of hours later. It is one-fifteen in the morning. You see the hooded figure run out there? That's the woman Mycroft is so bent on protecting! How he knew who she was is beyond me, since I can't see her face from this angle…"

"Mr. Douglas, stay on task, please." Mycroft broke in.

Chase blushed again. "Sorry, DMP! Anyway, now I will skip to one-twenty one. You now see our roving band of vandals running across the yard here! Two figures, dressed in black, complete with black ski masks. One is very tall, almost six feet, while the other one is shorter. See the bag the tall one is carrying?"

"Yes." John confirmed.

"Well, the DMP believes our couple hid in the house after the party was over, changed into their burglarizing outfits, and then waited until later before they emerged from wherever the heck they were and tried to open the safe." Chase summed up.

John watched in fascination as the two figures in black raced across the yard, heedless to the alarms going off. A pack of Dobermans, barking loudly, were close behind.

Suddenly, the smaller figure slipped and fell, clutching her ankle.

John watched in amazement as the taller figure immediately turned around and unceremoniously picked up the smaller person. One of the dogs rushed forward, sharp teeth aimed for the pair's flesh.

As quick as lightning, the tall figure lashed out and kicked the dog hard on his muzzle, sending the dazed canine to the ground. The dog's squeal of pain was heard, even on the tape. The man then turned around and continued running, his partner still safe in his arms, until he disappeared from the screen.

"He didn't leave her behind." John whispered.

"I know! You have to admit, it _is_ kind of sweet! In a weird, romantic '_Bonny and Clyde_' criminal sort of way! Who says there is no honor among thieves?" Chase said.

"Do you think they took any information with them? Any blackmail material that they could use?" John asked.

"They _did_ take one item." Chase confirmed. "A disk with the names of everyone who has helped Milverton and Moriarty by delivering them the blackmail information over the years. Now _we_ have it."

"How did we get it?" John asked.

Chase smiled. "Remember how my friends were monitoring the net to find out if any outside hackers were helping Moriarty?"

"Yes. What about it?" John asked.

Chase's face transformed into what only could be the picture definition of smugness. "Well, one of our suspects, _Chimera_, sent the list of Milverton's informants to one of my friends from Fan Fiction. I gave the list to DMP, and he is working with the other countries on apprehending them and mopping up the last of Milverton's operation!"

"Then that means…the only operating groups left are in Africa, South America, and here in England." John realized.

Mycroft spoke up. "Correction, John. I see I have neglected to inform you. Less than two weeks ago, an international coalition of countries descended on Moriarty's network in Africa and have succeeded in capturing or killing most of its members, as well as seizing the bulk of its assets. I cannot take any credit for that, as the operation was being planned for almost three years. But it is helpful to our cause."

"I say so! Tell him about the other stuff _Chimera_ sent us, DMP!" Chase said eagerly.

Mycroft gave Chase a cool glare, but his tone was impassive. "As Mr. Douglas has already revealed, the same mysterious hacker who sent the information about Milverton also sent a list of locations and names of Moriarty's contacts in South America. In a few days' time, we will be in position to take them into custody."

"So while we still don't know if any of the outside hackers are helping Moriarty's web, we _do_ know that one of them, _Chimera_, is working against him!" Chase explained.

"So once the threat in South America has been neutralized, then the only remaining cell is here, in London." Mycroft summed up in his usual pompous manner.

"You are talking about Sebastian Moran, aren't you?" John said.

Colonel Sebastian Moran was an elite sniper who served twice in Afghanistan before he was captured by the enemy. He was a prisoner of war for five months before he escaped, but he was wounded in the process. Disabled, he returned to London and was at one point approached by Moriarty.

Before Moriarty's suicide, he was Moriarty's second-in-command. John had already been briefed on the sniper that Moriarty kept in his employment, whom many believed to be the new leader of Moriarty's empire, although John and Mycroft both had some doubts.

"He and a couple of other members, some of whom have yet to be identified. Nevertheless, they are still free and capable to carry on the organization's orders. Recently, two of my agents were killed when they attempted to get close to Moran, so there is undoubtedly a security breach somewhere. Which is why I am going to request that you be moved to an undisclosed location until this is over." Mycroft said in the patronizing voice he reverted to whenever he sought to order people around.

"_What?_" John asked, agasted. "Mycroft, we have already gone through this! I told you that I am not running away, and that is all there is to it!"

"You may wish to reconsider your decision, John." Mycroft said calmly, handing John a manila file. "Thanks to _Chimera_, we have confirmed that a war has broken out among Moriarty's empire. Whoever is now in charge suspects that there is a traitor in their midst. Someone is divulging Moriarty's secrets to government agencies all over the world. Whoever has taken Moriarty's place as the new leader has been ruthless. Several members have been shot and killed for being suspected of being the traitor."

Mycroft paused, allowing John time to go over the contents. "And they were the fortunate ones."

* * *

"_Oh, my God!_" John breathed as he opened the file.

His hands began to shake as he continued to go through the material he was just given. He couldn't help it. Because what he saw in that file was now burnt into his memory for all time, and it would continue to haunt his nightmares for many years to come.

Inside the file Mycroft had handed him were pictures of men and women who were tortured. Some of them in ways that went beyond comprehension.

In the first picture, there was a young Asian woman in a dark, dirty room, with waste on the floor and bugs flying around. Food and water were curiously absent. The woman was covered with grime, dirt, and blood from head to toe, and stared forward, eyes curiously empty and void of any intelligence. A curious, crescent shaped scar was visible on the woman's scalp.

In the second picture, a man was hanging suspended from various ropes attached to hooks that were embedded in the man's skin. The blood and oozing around those wounds, as well as the various insects surrounding him, showed that he had been allowed to hang like that for some time.

The third picture showed a woman on a steel table, surrounded by surgical instruments. The evidence of dried blood covering everything showed that the people in charge obviously didn't care about keeping a sterile environment. As the woman, obviously still alive, was photographed while she screamed, her recently severed foot was positioned near her head.

The fourth picture showed two men tied up together to where they were connected, hand to hand, foot to foot, and mouth to mouth. Only after closer examination did John realize that while one of the men was very much alive, the other man was dead, and had been for several weeks, which was evident by the rotting flesh and bugs crawling around.

_They tied up a living man to a corpse!_

There were more pictures, each one more sickening than the last. Pictures of living, breathing human beings being put through various forms of torture.

_Hanging, drowning, burning, severance of body parts, mutilation, rape, isolation, starvation, crucifixion, electrocution… _

"When the Black Lotus destroyed themselves, someone called in a tip and sent authorities to this 'facility,' where Moriarty's victims were put through treatment that can best be described as 'barbaric.'" Mycroft explained, disgust succeeding in slipping through his emotionless persona.

"This is horrible!" John exclaimed. Bile rose up in the back of his throat, and he fought back the urge to gag.

"Tell me about it! I lost my breakfast when I saw the pictures! Poor DMP had to get his umbrella cleaned!" Chase said, nodding emphatically. "But the DMP is worried that someone may try to appease the new top dog and kidnap you. What's more, he's afraid you may be given the same type of treatment." Chase explained, shuddering at the thought. "Whoever has taken over is just as sick as Moriarty! Except that he is paranoid, of course. That's why the system's breaking down. Someone from the inside is sharing information with us, and they don't know who it is."

"Do _we_ know who it is?" John asked.

"Sorry, John!" Chase said, looking disgruntled. "The DMP has no one on the inside. And as far as we know, no one else does, either!"

"Do you believe _everything_ that Mycroft tells you?" John asked Chase sarcastically.

Chase looked amazed by this question. "Why would the DMP lie to_ me?"_

John shook his head and looked back at Mycroft. "So you succeeded in brainwashing him, huh?"

Mycroft smirked. "He arrived in this state of mind already, _before_ I employed him, John. But to answer your question, no, I do not have anyone in Moriarty's organization."

John didn't look like he believed Mycroft's statement, but decided to get back to the main issue. "But we _know_ that at least one man and one woman are involved in this attack on Moriarty's empire!" John said, gesturing towards the screen.

"Unless someone is dressing in drag, we think so!" Chase confirmed.

"And there is more." Mycroft spoke up. "Whoever is behind this is sending messages to Moriarty's organization. Rather inventive ones, I might add. Mr. Douglas, if you would."

"Sure, DMP!" Chase said, turning his laptop back around to give John a better view of the screen. "I'm going to show you a series of snapshots. These are pictures of the messages that our mysterious vigilante has left for the new headmaster of Moriarty's happy little band of social misfits!"

* * *

Curious, John watched as pictures appeared on the screen. In each one, someone had spray-painted a message on the side of a building or a billboard, in different languages.

"The first one showed up in Japan, soon after the civil war with the Black Lotus erupted." Mycroft explained. "It says '_Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged._' The second one shows up in China, and reads '_Two wrongs don't make a right, but neither does one. Revenge may seem petty by day, but on some nights she becomes Justice._'"

"How about that one?" John asked.

"That one is in Cairo, Egypt. It seems our little vigilante friend has a feisty side. This says '_A ruler who hides behind paid executioners soon forgets what death is. Allow me to help you remember._' In perfect Arabic, I might add, according to the DMP." Chase replied, showing undisguised respect towards the writer of the anonymous messages. "There are many more, but here's the latest one, which was painted outside Mr. Smith's villa, just after his death. It is Spanish for _'__Justice is my being allowed to do whatever I like. Injustice is whatever prevents my doing so.'__"_

"But _what_ is that supposed to tell us, exactly?" John muttered.

"You mean _besides_ the fact that the writer is in need of anger management?" Chase said. "All this talk about vengeance and justice and death…I say _someone_ is a little pissed at Moriarty's empire!"

"He can get in line! But do we have any ideas on who it could be?" John asked.

"Well, when I saw the tags, I thought it could be Raze, but he has an alibi!" Chase said, grinning to show he was joking. "But whoever is doing it has a wicked sense of humor and a vast knowledge of pop culture! Look at _this_ quote. '_It is a pleasure to burn!_' That's from Fahrenheit. The other quotes are from famous people, literature, and so forth."

"So somebody is taunting Moriarty's web. But what is that?" John asked, pointing at the screen. "At the corner of each message is a symbol, or drawing, of some sort. It looks like a bird."

"A raven, actually." Mycroft explained. "The person or persons who are going after Moriarty's empire keep leaving this symbol behind. As I have said, it is a raven, a classic symbol of death."

"So the person doing this is calling himself the 'Raven?'" John asked.

Mycroft nodded. "I had my people research it. Despite the obvious parellels that exist in literature, the raven is also a bird that is biologically related to Moriarty's own symbol."

"The Thieving Magpie." John realized. "So it is someone close to Moriarty?"

"Based on some of this, it almost _sounds_ like Moriarty himself, doesn't it?" Chase asked.

"Which means I must now share some information I have been withholding, as it previously had no bearing on the current situation." Mycroft said, looking momentarily uncomfortable. "Based on the limited data we have, I believe I can ascertain the identity of at least one person who is behind this operation. Someone with both the computer skills and the resources to accomplish the task. This person, whoever it is, has been tipping off authorities throughout the world and is taking down each of Moriarty's members, one by one. Almost all have been captured, although a few were found dead."

"_Murdered?_" John asked.

"I am inclined to believe it was done in self-defense, based on the preliminary reports, although it _could_ have been premeditated." Mycroft replied.

"So you are saying you think you know who is behind the attacks of Moriarty's empire?" John asked.

"Not with absolute certainty. But I have sent a few of my operatives to America, near Savannah, Georgia. Hopefully, by the end of the week, I will have the information necessary to determine the identity of the person responsible for this." Mycroft affirmed.

"And then what? Are we going to help them? If this person is out to get Moriarty, and we are out to get Moriarty, then why can't we join forces?" John inquired.

"You think like a warrior, John, and that is highly commendable. But it is possible that this person or persons would not appreciate outside interference." Mycroft stated flatly.

John looked at Mycroft, calculating his appearance. As always, he was elegantly dressed, this time in a tanned suit, silk tie, and polished Italian leather shoes. His hair was characteristically swept back, and his icy blue eyes were clear and alert.

But John knew Mycroft. Maybe not as well as he knew Sherlock, but John had a feeling that he could gauge when either Holmes was not telling him the full truth.

"You _know_ who it is, don't you, Mycroft?" John accused.

Mycroft shook his head dismissively. "I _suspect_ I know who it may be, John. But until I collect the necessary data, then I have no evidence to support my theory."

"_Fine!_ Then who do you _suspect_ is involved?" John muttered.

"You would not believe it, even if I told you." Mycroft said, rising from his chair. "But as you still refuse to leave until after the danger is safely past, then at least allow me to double the surveillance on you so that you come to no harm."

"I can agree to that." John conceded. "And when you do get confirmation on who our new ally is, you will keep us informed, right?"

Mycroft's troubled silence was answer enough.

* * *

Molly Hooper checked to make sure her hair was still in place, so that it wouldn't get in her way as she performed the next autopsy. Satisfied, she hurriedly put on a pair of latex gloves.

With any luck, she would get out of the morgue and back to her flat before it got too late.

It was growing dark outside, which filled her with a cold sense of dread. Ever since the Satanic Slasher had shown up, she couldn't help but feel extremely uneasy. Before, she could walk out the door of Bart's hospital and walk a few blocks to the tube without any hesitation.

Now, the mere idea of traveling that short distance alone made her rather anxious.

A eighteenth victim was found last night. Mark Cooper. A young university student who was on the local Rugby team. Strong, athletic, and physically fit. Someone who should have been capable of protecting himself.

The gaping hole in his chest and the burnt lump that was once the man's heart suggested otherwise.

Molly was understandably frustrated. After eighteen victims, there was still no progress being made!No forensics, no leads, nothing! The only evidence they had was Violet Hunter and John's statements from the first crime scene.

So how the _bloody hell_ could such a huge man, reportedly at least six feet tall, leave the crime scenes without a trace?

_I bet Sherlock would have solved this months ago!_

Molly frowned slightly as she thought of her absent friend. She had once harbored a serious crush on him, but it soon became clear he did not reciprocate those feelings. She was briefly depressed, feeling a sense of shame and inadequacy.

However, she respected the man enough not to push the issue.

Then, many months later, Sherlock hid out at Bart's, in her morgue, no less. He was accused of kidnapping those kids, and was hiding from both the Yard and Moriarty.

She recalled the sadness in his eyes, mere hours before he had his confrontation with Moriarty on the roof. So different from his usual confidence. He seemed trapped in some way, wanting desperately to confide in someone. _Anyone._

He chose to confide in Molly.

"_You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you._"

For the last year and a half, when she couldn't sleep at night, she tormented herself with so many unanswered questions.

_Was Sherlock still alive? Was he alright? Did he know that his name was cleared? _

_Did he know how much people still missed him?_

Of course, _she_ had changed. Probably so much so that Sherlock might not even recognize her. She had cut her hair a few inches shorter, for one thing, and while it was still long, the strands around her face curved inward, giving her face more definition. She was also paying more attention to her appearance, as was revealed by her neatly applied lipstick and manicured nails.

Her manner had went through some changes as well. She still felt unsure of herself most of the time, but over the last few months, she found that she was becoming more out-spoken in her opinions. She also felt a little more in-control of her life, instead of being passively in its grip.

In short, she now acted as though her choices mattered.

Suddenly, an orderly came through the double doors, pushing a gurney in front of him. "Got another one for you, Dr. Hooper!"

Molly looked up, startled. "Oh! My shift ends in another hour. I may not be able to perform the autopsy until tomorrow."

The orderly actually smirked at this comment. "There's no hurry! We already know the cause of death. The victim was sick, Dr. Hooper. _Very sick!_" He said significantly, looking at the body on the gurney, which was completely covered by a white sheet.

Molly frowned. _Was this guy mocking her?_

"I don't know what you find to be so amusing! If you don't mind, I have _work_ to do!" Molly grabbed the other side of the gurney and pulled it away from the orderly in one jerk.

She didn't like it when people laughed at her! And lately, she didn't see a reason why she had to put up with it!

Wasn't she Molly Hooper, a beautiful, sexy, intelligent woman (at least, according to her latest love interest)? Didn't she deserve to be taken seriously?

The man continued grinning, obviously ignoring Molly's discomfiture. "Good luck!" He chuckled quietly as he exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Molly was exasperated. _Why did people always seem to make fun of her behind her back? _

_Didn't anyone see her as a human being?_

However, before she could ponder this further, the "body" on the gurney suddenly set up and quickly pulled the sheet off his face.

Molly's loud-pitched scream echoed through the morgue.

* * *

The person turned to her. "Hey, Molly! Mind if I drop in?"

"_CLARKY!"_ Molly shrieked again, smacking him hard on the arm. "What the _bloody hell_ are you doing? You almost gave me a heart attack!"

Clarky grinned unashamedly. "I'm hiding out from Stan! And anyway, I thought you may want some company!"

"So you came down here pretending to be a _corpse_ to say hello?" Molly gasped disbelievingly.

"Something like that." Clarky shrugged.

"You almost scared me to death, Clarky!" Molly repeated.

"Sorry." Clarky said, giving her the mournful puppy-dog eyes that always made her heart melt, even when she wanted to stay mad at him.

Serendipitously, he reached under the sheet and pulled out a single pink rose. _Her favorite_.

Clarky held it out to her. "Am I forgiven?"

Molly grinned despite herself. She knew she should be angry at Clarky. It wouldn't do for him to know that he could give her gifts every time he made her mad.

But why did he always succeed? Was she _that_ much of a push-over?

_But did it really matter?_

She calmly took the rose. "Well, maybe this once…" She said teasingly.

Clarky smirked, knowing that the worst was over.

"_So_, besides hiding from Inspector Hopkins, what _are_ you doing here?" Molly said.

Clarky shrugged as he slid off the gurney. "Actually, if it is okay with you, I would like to drive you home tonight."

Molly blushed slightly. "Clarky, that is very sweet of you…"

"I won't take 'no' for an answer, Molly!" Clarky insisted. "We got a serial killer on the loose, and I don't want you to end up in the morgue!"

Molly gave him a strange look.

Clarky rolled his eyes. "I _meant_ I don't want to see you in the morgue on a slab! Besides, you are the only person that I knew before I moved here! Who else is going to teach me 'British' English? Who else takes the time to teach me where all the good places are to eat, to socialize? Who's going to watch out for me to make sure I don't make a huge ass, sorry, _arse_ of myself?"

Molly turned her back away from Clarky so he wouldn't see the treacherous blush in her cheeks.

_Try to act composed, Molly Hooper. Don't babble and make a fool of yourself!_

"I'm sure the Yarders can help you with stuff like that." Molly replied.

Clarky turned Molly around. "_Maybe!_ But if something _did_ happen to you, and I wasn't there..."

Without warning, he brought his warm lips to Molly's. For a moment, Molly froze, then responded by wrapping her arms around Clarky's neck and pulling him closer.

* * *

It wasn't their first kiss, and it likely wouldn't be their last.

But that never stopped Molly's heart from beating rapidly every time they did it, or blush like a silly school girl afterwards.

Several months ago, Clarky showed up in London, much to the surprise and delight of Molly, whom had been friends with Clarky for many years, even when they lived on different sides of the Atlantic Ocean.

Clarky, with his usual charm and flattery, had offered to take Molly to dinner one night to "catch up." As Molly's dinner plans were originally to eat take-out at home with no one but her cat Toby for company, she accepted.

She ended up having a great time. So when Clarky offered again, she accepted.

After the first few dinners, it soon became apparent to Molly that Clarky viewed her more than "just a friend."

And she realized, after some reflection, that she felt the same way towards him.

So when Clarky asked her if she was willing to take a chance on him, she agreed to try the whole dating thing.

And now, four months later, even with the rest of London terrified for their lives, Molly had never been happier.

* * *

"_I knew it!_"

Clarky groaned in annoyance as he pulled away from Molly. He looked over at the figure who had just barged in. "_Stan!_ Get the _hell_ out of here before I get one of my guns and shoot you! _Right now!"_

Stanley Hopkins grinned as he waltzed into the morgue. "_Clarky, Clarky, Clarky!_ You really need to stop with this cloak-and-dagger stuff! Everyone at the Yard already knows you have a thing for Dr. Hooper!"

"Clarky and I are old friends, Stan." Molly said, feeling her entire face blush crimson from embarrassment. "We met at a seminar several years ago, and we have kept in touch."

"I'd say!" Stan retorted, looking pleased with himself. "And it is just _coincidence_ that his car is seen at your flat on the weekends?"

"Prove it!" Molly challenged, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Hopkins cocked his left eyebrow in disbelief. "Are you _serious?_ That hideous green color that can be spotted five kilometers away? Why _anyone_ would have a car painted the same color as split-pea soup is beyond me! Tell me, Clarky! Did you have it painted that color so that no one in their right mind will ever steal it? If that was your plan, it worked!"

Clarky regarded Hopkins warily. "What do you _want_, Stan?"

Hopkins grinned. "For you two to admit you like each other! After three months, this secrecy is getting old, and you two aren't fooling anyone! Besides, the Yard has a pool going on when you two finally go public with your relationship, and I want to win!"

Clarky glared at Hopkins as he took a few steps forward. "Stan, so help me, I swear I am going to punch you if you keep this up! Molly here is a lady, and will be treated as such! I want you to apologize to her! Right now, or she will have another corpse to perform an autopsy to!"

Molly gently pulled Clarky back towards her. "Clarky, calm down! It's fine. There is nothing to get upset about." Turning to Hopkins, Molly gave her brightest smile. "So you want us to confess?"

"_Yes!_" Hopkins said. "Please! I want to win this time!"

"Very well. I confess!" Molly said smugly.

Hopkins pulled out a tape recorder he had hidden in his pocket. "What are you confessing to?"

Molly smirked. "I am having an affair with Clarky's car!"

Clarky guffawed with laughter as Hopkins's face fell with disappointment. "_Bugger!_ That's not fair! _Clarky!_ Will one of you just come out and _say_ it? I got several quid riding on this!"

"I have the right to remain _silent_, Stanley!" Clarky snickered.

"_Bugger!_" Hopkins grumbled. "You two think you are so clever! I just wish I got a picture of you two snogging! I bet neither one of you could keep a secret if you tried!"

_I don't know about that._ Molly thought uncomfortably.

"Stan!" Clarky said, giving Hopkins a significant glance. "If you don't high-tail it out of here in the next few seconds, I will call Anderson up and tell him who was responsible for what happened to one of his little dinosaur collectables!"

Hopkins froze, his expression morphing from one of vast amusement to one of extreme terror. "_You wouldn't!_"

Clarky grinned mischievously. "_Try me_, you Brit!"

Hopkins pouted. "_Fine!_ But don't think you two are fooling anyone!" Giving Clarky a knowing smirk, he walked out of the door.

Clarky shook his head in annoyance. "Sorry about that! Next time, before I come down here, I'll tie him up and lock him in a closet somewhere!"

Molly giggled. "It's fine, Clarky! Don't worry about it!"

Truthfully, she was already aware of the rumors flying around concerning hers and Clarky's relationship. Most of her colleagues seemed very happy for her. Even the Yarders seemed pleased with the development, even though Hopkins has been the only one vocal enough to voice his opinion on the matter.

Still, she didn't like the fact that they were now subjects of the famous Yarders' Betting Pool.

Clarky shook his head sadly. "Figures we would become the new topic of the Yarder's gambling, huh?" Clarky said, unknowingly voicing Molly's own thoughts on the matter.

"I wish people had something else to do with their time!" Molly muttered. "You think that betting on people's relationships would get old!"

Clarky suddenly inclined his head in embarrassment.

Molly saw Clarky's expression. "Clarky, did _you_ bet on us?"

"_No!_" Clarky protested. "I just, uh…"

"What?" Molly persisted.

Clarky rubbed his hands through his hair in frustration. "I may have, uh, _participated_ in the recent pool…the one that we had to predict the date that John would propose to his girlfriend, so this is probably karma coming back to bite me!"

Molly's brown eyes widened. "John proposed to Mary?"

Clarky nodded. "Last weekend! So Lestrade ended up winning the bet. If John had waited to _this_ weekend, I would have won and could have taken you to a night out on the town!"

Molly smiled happily.

_So John had found someone he wanted to share his life with! That was great news! _

_Just wait till Sherlock found out!_

_Assuming he was still alive, of course._

Clarky saw the change in Molly's expression, but was unable to figure out the reason why Molly suddenly looked depressed. "Hey, you weren't interested in, uh…"

Molly saw Clarky's expression and giggled. "What? _Me and John?_ Of course not!"

"_Oh!_ Good!" Clarky said, relieved. "Because Lucky didn't tell me about that!"

"Didn't he already tell you enough about me?" Molly asked playfully.

"Well, he _did_ tell me your last boyfriend was a jerk, and that you were surrounded by men who didn't appreciate you!" Clarky protested.

Molly smirked, rolling the gurney that Clarky had ridden on to the side of the lab. "Well, Patrick's a good friend! Although I'm surprised he told you that! He can oblivious to alot of things!"

"Yeah! Tell me about it! So, uh, can I wait here until you get off work?" Clarky asked, still looking uncomfortable about pressing the matter.

Molly grinned as she gave Clarky a peck on the cheek, shaking off her doubts. "You can stay, Clarky. You know you are always welcome here. And yes, you can escort me home tonight. Just don't show up as a corpse again, ok?"

Clarky chuckled, green eyes bright with good humor. "No problem!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **Ah, the plot thickens! So we have a mysterious serial killer on the loose! The Yard is powerless to prevent it, and Mycroft can't help because someone is messing with the CCTV system.

Too bad Sherlock isn't around to help!

But the news isn't all bad! We know that one man and one woman are involved in taking down Charles Milverton's part of Moriarty's web in Italy. If _only_ we knew who they were! (Warning: Beware of jumping to obvious conclusions!)

Also, we know that _Chimera_, one of the few unidentified hackers, has now aligned his or herself with Mycroft and his allies, and is feeding information to them about Moriarty's web.

With Mycroft's resources, he should come up with a few answers as to the mysterious identity of the "Raven," and be able to answer them for us soon.

Meanwhile, John and Mary got engaged, and Molly's found herself a boyfriend!

**Personal request: I need two Fan Fiction members for my next chapter! Two females, preferably! They will be involved in helping Chase and the DMP (a.k.a. Mycroft, a.k.a. Demented Mary Poppins) find out that Moriarty is alive. All I want is permission to use your Fan Fiction names in the next chapter. One time only, I promise! No dialogue needed. Anyone who is interested, please let me know!**

**Disclaimer: **I don't on the show "Sherlock." Or any of my other favorite shows! How sad is my life!

**Molly Hooper**-So, what did you want to talk to us about, Peaceful Defender?

**Peaceful Defender **(looking disgusted)-What is _with_ you and Clarky? Can't you guys kiss somewhere _normal!_ You two have to make out in the _morgue!_

**OC Clarky** (looking confused)-What's wrong with that?

**Peaceful Defender**-It's _unsanitary!_ It's _disturbing!_ It's _sick!_ My readers already know I'm mentally imbalanced! That's no excuse for you two to _prove_ that!

**Molly Hooper** (blushing)-It's not like _that!_ I mean, I see Clarky, and we just..._connect_, I guess! It's not like we mean it to happen! And get your head out of the gutter! We have only kissed, nothing more!

**Peaceful Defender**-Yeah, but the _morgue?_

**OC Clarky**-Yes, yes, we have already established that Molly and I make out in the morgue! Why do you care? Besides, you lost control of the story a long time ago!

**Peaceful Defender**-Still, what can possibly bring out romance in a place like the morgue?

**OC Clarky** (smirks)-Nothing like the smell of death to make one feel alive!

**Peaceful Defender**-(turns green, gags, then runs away to throw up in the bathroom).

**Molly Hooper **(looking guilty)-Do you think we should go after her? She didn't look well!

**OC Clarky** (shrugs)-Maybe if she gets a review or two, she will feel better!


	11. Chapter 10

**Wow! Thank you Missy the Least, chaoticmom, MsSherlocked, MoonlitIvy, and raveoak21 for their kind permission to use their names in this chapter! I hope you all like how they represent the Fan Fiction community and offer valuable assistance to Chase and the DMP! **

**Meanwhile, we finally get answers to a few of our questions! Who exactly is Danielle Morray, and what is her relationship to Moriarty? We find out now!**

**Apologies in advance for the technological talk and the hacker terminology!**

* * *

**Chapter Ten: The Return of the Darkness**

"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has already got there first, and is waiting for it." Terry Pratchett.

* * *

**_From the private blog of Chase Douglas, hacker extraordinaire._**

**_ Hey! Sorry for the delay, my fellow FanFiction members! I am sorry I haven't been in contact for a while. I promise to be more prompt with my updates just as soon as things quiet down some. But for now, I have something to tell you._**

**_After months of boring computer scans and pointless program data specs, I actually have news to report to my faithful friends at Fan Fiction, whom are helping me with "The Problem." _**

**_But I must ask you all to keep this entirely to yourselves! No postings, chats, emails, anything! _**

**_Don't even talk about it! Hell, don't even think about it, if you are prone to sleep-talking or something like that. And if you are, turn off your computer or go to a new website before you read any further!_**

_**Still there? Then I take it that you promise not to let this info get out! Because if it does, and you're** **responsible, the DMP will find you! Trust me! I have been working under him for almost a year now! I **_**_know__ what I'm talking about!_**

**_ Ok, here's the deal. That sicko Moriarty is alive. _**

**_Yeah, you read right. I repeat, __Moriarty is alive!_**

**_ On the bright side, at least __now__ I know who is behind the system take-over. Seriously, who else can it be? _**

**_But on the bad side, can I just quote Tom Hanks by saying "Houston, we have a problem?" _****_Because that is exactly what we have. A BIG PROBLEM!_**

**_ I have no doubts that this information is authentic, as it came from fellow FanFiction members, all of whom are very reliable and actually risked their lives getting this information. _**

**_Here's what happened. See, Missy the Least and chaoticmom were in London on vacation, enjoying the sights. They were walking by Bart's when they saw someone who looked familiar to them. _**

**_Missy the Least immediately recognizes the bastard as Moriarty! In the flesh! And by flesh, I mean the nice, pink, live flesh and not the rotting, peeling, green flesh of a zombie! Missy the Least points the guy out to chaoticmom, so chaoticmom takes out her cell phone and takes a quick picture of him (all the while pretending to take a picture of Bart's). _**

**_Talk about smooth! I probably would have wet my pants and ran away!_**

**_Still, Missy the Least and chaoticmom wanted more confirmation, because Moriarty was supposed to have shot his head off, and yet there he was, standing in the same spot where Sherlock died and gloating! Was it really him, or just someone who looked like him?_**

**_Anyway, Moriarty gets into a cab and leaves. Missy the Least and chaoticmom run to catch another cab, but don't get one in time. Then, they run right into MsSherlocked! Talk about luck! MsSherlocked is from Britain, you see, and she knows her way around! _**

**_They tell her what they saw, and MsSherlocked deduced that is the man they saw was Moriarty, then he was likely heading to Sherlock's grave to gloat some more. So the three hail a cab and go to the graveyard that Sherlock's buried at, and see that the same man is already there, standing over Sherlock's grave._**

**_Uh, yeah! Might want to check the place for explosives, knowing that psycho!_**

**_Well, the three watch him from a nearby tree (out of sight, of course), when MoonlitIvy and ravenoak21 run into them. They were in London on vacation as well, and thought they would stop by to pay their final respects to the great Sherlock. The other three quickly explain what is going on._**

**_Now, as you know, Moriarty is one slick (insert favorite curse word or insult here). Yet my fellow Fan Fiction members were at a loss of what to do. If they called the Yard, and the guy was not Moriarty...well, talk about embarrassing! But if it was Moriarty...well, he may have an exploding vest on, or something. Yet they couldn't leave, without confirmation. So here's what they did!_**

**_First, MoonlitIvy walks on over and stands next to Moriarty, asking him if he was a fellow Sherlockian and all. Guy grins and says how much he always "admired" Sherlock. MoonlitIvy starts talking and acting friendly, talking about Sherlock and all. She said that Moriarty seemed...off, somehow. Like he couldn't focus or something._**

**_Then, right on cue, ravenoak21 storms over and punches Moriarty in the face. Enough to draw blood! Good punch, ravenoak21! _**

**_See, ravenoak21 was pretending that she thought Moriarty was her boyfriend, and that she caught him flirting with MoonlitIvy. Of course, then she gets all apologetic and the girls help Moriarty up and get a handkerchief to wipe the blood off his face. Moriarty brushes them off and leaves. _**

**_Without the handkerchief. With his blood (a.k.a. DNA) on it. _**

**_Anyhow, after that was over with, they contacted me and explained what happened! We had the picture ran through this "facial recognition" program, and it showed a 90% probability of being Moriarty._**

_**The blood on the handkerchief was also tested, and it came back as belonging to Moriarty. I asked the DMP how he was sure, and he told me that he once had Moriarty in custody, but had to let him go!**_

_**News flash to the DMP, who is no doubt reading this! Next time you have Moriarty in custody, make sure he doesn't leave!**_

**_ First, props to Missy the Least for recognizing Moriarty in the first place, and chaoticmom for the photograph. Also, cheers to MsSherlocked for deducing where the psycho was going and getting the others there. Academy Awards to MoonlitIvy and ravenoak21 for their acting skills and for getting Moriarty's DNA. _**

**_Personally, I'm jealous! They get to outsmart an evil genius, and one even gets to give him a right hook! Not fair!_**

**_However, I can't help but feel smug about the whole thing! The DMP is a little pissed off lately. Right now, he's holding his umbrella and muttering about how a group of civilians managed to show him up again! Hah! _**

**_DMP, I love you! You know I do! You are like the prying uncle's brother's cousin I never had! But you need to stop taking it so hard every time Fan Fiction comes in to save the day! It's not our fault that we are so good! LOL!_**

_**Second matter, now that we know that Moriarty is alive, we need to figure out several things. Just how do you fake your death by shooting yourself in the head, anyways? Any ideas, anyone? **_

_**Also, does anyone have any idea as to what he is planning?** _

**_Remember, the DMP is depending on us! (He's complaining about it, of course. But he knows he can't make it without us!) So let's not let him down!_**

**_ This is Chase Douglas, signing off._**

* * *

_October 20th. Seventeen months since the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

"So you are _absolutely_ sure that this is Moriarty?" John asked, his expression close to borderline panic.

"No doubt about it." Chase affirmed, his teeth clinched. "I already explained how we came by the blood sample and the picture. That bastard is still alive. _Damn it!_" Chase finished by pounding his fists on the desk, nearly upsetting the laptop he was using to monitor the activities of the nameless hacker.

_Not so nameless now!_ Chase thought disgustedly. Even though he had no proof Moriarty was behind the CCTV takeover, he didn't need it.

_Who else would have had the smarts to pull something like this off?_

"So five Fan Fiction members were able to get this information?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh, not just any Fan Fiction members!" Chase replied. "MoonlitIvy is a Beta, and she tries to save stories from bad grammar! And all five have written some great stories, with Harry Potter..."

"Mr. Douglas!" Mycroft interrupted impatiently. "I admit that your friends were of assistance in this matter. There is no reason to continously remind us all!"

"Mycroft!" John protested. "Shut it! Just because the Fan Fiction group came through for us, again, that is no excuse to sulk around and act immature!"

"Oh, don't worry about it, John! The DMP is just mad at me because I publish a Mystrade story!" Chase replied, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"_Mystrade? _ What's Mystrade?" Lestrade asked.

"Inspector, I advise you not to inquire further. Depending on your preference, you may either be thrilled or tramatized by the story. So I suggest we drop the matter, for the time being." Mycroft said in a cool tone that nevertheless held a warning as he glared at Chase, who smirked back.

Skylar shook her head in disbelief. "I don't believe it! All of our hard work, and it turns out Moriarty is still out there!"

"Which means that the Sherlockians are definitely targets." Lestrade pointed out. "Especially you, Ms. Simmons."

Skylar paled noticeably, then frowned. "I don't care about myself, Inspector, but what about the rest of us? Moriarty could go after them at any time."

"Why don't we go to the press and alert everyone?" John asked.

"Bad idea!" Chase muttered. "If he knows that we know, then he's liable to pull the plug on the whole thing, you know!"

"You believe that Moriarty somehow got into the system, and is periodically shutting it down." Mycroft spoke up. It was a statement, not a question.

"Damn straight!" Chase replied. "I mean, who else could it be?"

"So what now?" Lestrade asked.

"I have alerted my group. No fears, DMP!" Chase said, catching Mycroft's look of disapproval. "They haven't blabbed about the computer problem after all these months. Besides, we need their help! They may be able to help me figure out how Moriarty faked his death!"

"Hold on a second." Skylar broke in, her eyes wide. "Do you think _Moriarty_ is behind all the satanic killings?"

"It wouldn't surprise me." John muttered. "The man strapped bombs to his victims and blew them up. _Nothing_ is beneath him!"

"_Great!_ So the guy is shaping himself up as the damn Beast from Revelations!" Chase said, frustrated. "With the government system at his fingertips, he can do almost anything!"

As Chase's words sunk in, a sudden noise broke the silence, causing several of them to jump.

* * *

John looked up sheepishly. "Sorry. My cell. Probably Mary. Hold on a second." He pulled out his phone and turned it on. "Yes?"

"John Watson."

"Yes?" John asked. A high pitched raspy voice, spoken softly.

_Definitely not Mary. But who, then?_

"Listen carefully. I know the CCTV system is no longer under governmental control." Said the voice on the other line.

John froze. _Was it Moriarty?_ He didn't recognize the voice. "Who is this?"

"No time to explain. Just _listen._ Moriarty has control of your system. If you want to take him by surprise and regain control, tell Mycroft Holmes to use the _trap door._ I'll be in touch." The raspy voice whispered, ignoring John's question.

"_Wait!_ Who are you?" John shouted into the receiver.

"_Chimera._"

The ominous sound of a "click" was heard. John waited for a moment to be sure.

_Yes, whoever it was had hung up._

"Was that Moriarty?" Lestrade demanded.

John looked back at the group, phone still gripped tightly in his hand. "I don't know." John stared at the phone again as he checked the number. "Unknown number."

"Give me a second to see if I can trace the call." Chase said as he began to type quickly on his keyboard. A few moments went by before Chase slumped in his chair, defeated.

"Whoever it was didn't stay on long enough for me to get a trace." Chase said grimly as he looked at his screen. "Smart bastard!"

Skylar cocked his head. "What did he say?"

John frowned. "Whoever it was called himself _Chimera._" He looked pointedly at Chase

"Wait! You sure it was _Chimera_?" Chase said, sitting up straighter in his chair.

"You know him?" Lestrade asked, his face blank. He hadn't been briefed about Chimera's prior involvement yet.

"_No one_ knows him!" Chase said in awe. "Remember when we talked about how only a few hackers were capable of taking over the system from the outside? Well, the _Chimera_ is one of them. He appeared on the net about two years ago. No one knows who he is. But he is good!"

"How good?" Lestrade asked.

"_Very good!_ Much, much better than me! Let me put it this way. About two years ago, _Chimera_ hacked into the database at the _Pentagon_. He delivered financial records proving one of the people there was secretly selling weapons to a terrorist group. And then, just for the fun of it, he got hold of some office memos and sent them back after fixing a bunch of grammatical errors." Chase babbled. "Only a few of us knew about it, of course. _Chimera_ has done other stunts like that too. Broke into NASA database, several company systems, you name it!"

"Yes. I am aware of this _Chimera_. He is one of the few hackers that have yet to be identified and ruled out as a suspect. And while _Chimera_ has been helpful in delivering valuable information about Moriarty's empire to us, he has still shown himself to have somewhat of a _perverse_ sense of humor." Mycroft said scornfully. "He managed to hack into my personal home computer a few months ago."

"_Really?_" Chase asked eagerly. "You didn't tell me _that,_ DMP! What happened?"

Mycroft waived his hand impatiently. "All he did was change my background page from its original one to one with a bunch of balloons, with the words 'Happy Birthday' on it. He must have somehow hacked into my personal file, as few people would have known my birthday. I was unable to get it off until the end of the day."

Lestrade smirked. "When _was_ your birthday, then?"

Mycroft turned his icy stare towards the Detective Inspector. "I hardly see how that is _relevant_, Lestrade."

Chase laughed. "That's the _Chimera_ for you, DMP! You know how I consider myself a 'white hat,' or ethical hacker? Well, _Chimera_ is what I would consider a 'grey hat' hacker."

"What does that mean?" Lestrade asked.

"_White hat_ hackers, like me, break into a computer system for good reasons, usually to determine weak spots in the program's defenses and alert the owners about it."

"I understand that part." Lestrade replied.

Chase nodded. "You compare that to a _black hat_ hacker, like Moriarty, who breaks into a computer system with the intent to destroy information or take control of the program. But _Chimera_ seems to be somewhere in-between. Either he pulls harmless pranks or he exposes people's crimes. As far as I know, he hasn't stolen anyone's identification or transferred stolen funds."

"So he's doing questionable acts with good intent?" Lestrade asked.

Chased nodded again. "But the best thing about him is that no one has come _close_ to catching him! And lately, he has been sending the DMP information about Moriarty's empire!" Chase turned back to John. "Did _Chimera_ say anything else, John?"

"Something about Moriarty taking the system and if we wanted it back we needed to use the 'trap door' or whatever. Absolute gibberish!" John replied.

"_Wait!_ Hold up!" Chase said eagerly. He sat up straight in his chair. "He said '_trap door_?' You sure!"

"Of course I'm sure!" John muttered irritably.

"But, then that means…_no way_ it can be that simple!" Chase said, almost as though he was talking to himself.

"_Trap door_? What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" Lestrade asked, exasperated.

Without another word, Chase began to type furiously on his keyboard. While the others looked on curiously, Chase began pulling up various screens and muttered silently under his breath.

"What is he doing?" Lestrade asked.

"_Sush!_" Skylar glared at the Inspector. "Wait a second!"

The group waited silently as Chase continued to pull up various programs, working so quickly that they were unsure exactly what he was doing or what he was searching for.

Suddenly Chase threw up his arms and pumped his fists. "YES! WE GOT IT! I FOUND THE PROBLEM!"

The government official, the Inspector, the Sherlockian, and the former army doctor gathered around the computer screen around Chase. "What did you discover, Mr. Douglas?" Mycroft asked, his face impassive.

"I figured out how Moriarty got into your system! _Damn!_ I should have thought of this before! It's so simple, _it's brilliant!_" Chase beamed.

"Mind sharing with us technology-challenged people?" Lestrade asked quizzically.

Chase turned to face the Inspector. "Moriarty used one of the oldest tricks in the book! He never hacked into the system because he already _had_ access to it!"

"How did he manage to do that?" John asked quizzically.

"Through the means of what we programmers call a 'trap door.' Basically, when a programmer designs a program, he or she will sometimes build in a personalized 'trap door' that is hidden from the rest of the system." Chase explained.

"Why have trap doors in the first place?" John asked.

"Two reasons." Chase explained. "First, it's practical_. I_ have trap doors built in on all the programs I design. That way, if someone freezes up the system, then I can use the trap door that I built into the system to log in and fix the problem without too much hassle. Also, a trap door is like leaving my signature on a piece of artwork, you know?"

"So you are telling us that Moriarty got into the system through a programmer's trap door, which was built into the system already?" Mycroft asked pointedly.

"That's _exactly_ what I'm saying, DMP!" Chase replied.

"So now we just need to figure out who put the trap door inside the program." John replied.

"I can help you with that." Chase said. "According to these readouts, the actual entry program is through the firewall program that you use to keep hackers out. In a way, the firewall acted as a Trojan horse. It kept all hackers out, but it was designed to allow one hacker _in_. Well, at least now we know that it is someone from the inside who gave Moriarty access! I personally would have been pissed off if it was an outside hacker!"

"So if we know who programmed the firewall software, then we can figure out Moriarty's contact!" Skylar whispered excitedly.

Mycroft's eyes turned cold. "Based on the program you have just identified, I believe I have already know who it is." He said ominously. "Mr. Douglas, is there any way you can fix the breach?"

Chase frowned in concentration. "Well, that will take some time. First, I have to figure out Moriarty's personal password. That's the hard part! But once I get that, and now that I know the entry program, it can work!" Chase exclaimed. "I can piggy-back on the access point and even cut the connection."

"This will take some thought." Mycroft said. "The sooner we free the system, the sooner we can use the CCTV system to locate Moriarty without him knowing it."

John nodded approvingly. "I have an idea. Chase, just out of curiosity, can you tell how big Moriarty's program is?"

Chase nodded. "Normally, I couldn't without hacking in, but this computer is equipped with a program that allows me to see how big a hacker's system is before I log on. That way, I can see if I am dealing with a single person or a government intrusion. I can tell by how much RAM and memory they have."

"And what can you tell us?" John asked.

"Hold on a moment." Chase began typing again and went to a screen filled with unusual lines of code. "Here it is." Chase took a moment to read the screen. "Whoa! I am seeing a lot of data here. But without a password, I can't figure out what these codes mean." Frowning, Chase studied the readouts on the screen. "_Damn!_ Looks like Moriarty has a system set up to the max! Too bad I can't touch it yet, or Moriarty will know we are on to him."

"If you got in, could you do things to the program? Like empty banking accounts? Show locations of safe houses? Stuff like that?" John asked tensely.

"Good thinking, John!" Skylar nodded appreciatively. "If we go after the remnants of Moriarty's organization, Chase can make sure they have nowhere to go or hide!"

"Well, Mr. Douglas?" Mycroft looked at the young man at the computer. "Can it be done?"

Chase considered for a moment. "Even if I get access through Moriarty's password, I can't do it by myself! At least, not without alerting Moriarty. I may be able to do passive surveillance on the program, but the minute I start messing with those files, someone will notice." Chase rubbed his fingers through his blonde hair, lost in thought.

"However, if some of my friends from the Fan Fiction website were logged on, then we can attack various files simultaneously. There would be no way to block us all until it is too late." Chase finally replied, his face aglow with excitement. "Same technique we used to show the tape from Bart's hospital last year! Or maybe we can convince one of the top hackers, _Chimera, Maverick's Mark,_ or _Escape Artist_ to help us. My friends at Fan Fiction could probably send a coded message out to where only a top hacker could break it, and see if they are interested."

"Do it." Mycroft ordered. "And remind your friends that the lives of millions of innocent civilians are at stake. One slip and it will all be for naught."

"You got it, DMP! And don't worry! We won't let you down." Chase assured Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled thinly. "For your sake, I hope not!"

Chase graced Mycroft with a goofy grin. "If I didn't know any better, DMP, I would guess that you _like_ me!"

"Mr. Douglas, I don't form _attachments._" Mycroft said dismissively. "Despite those _vulgar_ stories you and your fellow writers from Fan Fiction seem to indulge in by implying that I do!"

"_Yeah, yeah_! Keep lying to yourself!" Chase muttered. "Now, if you will all excuse me, I got a computer takeover to plan and an evil genius to take down!"

"And while Chase is figuring that out, what can _we_ do?" Skylar asked.

"First things first. We need to find out where Moriarty is hiding. If he is involved in the Slasher killings, then I bet the numbers he leaves at the crime scenes are significant, somehow." Lestrade commented. "But the question is, what?"

"Yeah, Moriarty doesn't seem the religious type. So if he _is_ involved, then what does '666' stand for?" John asked.

"Maybe it is the numbers in an address?" Lestrade pondered. "We can send officers to every location. And that is_ assuming_ he is involved."

Mycroft spoke up. "We will discretely check into each of these possibilities, but only after Mr. Douglas regains control of the system."

"I don't mean to play devil's advocate." Skylar ventured. "But how do we know that this isn't a trap? I mean, maybe Moriarty _wants_ us to hack into the system. Or maybe Moriarty and the _Chimera_ are in league with each other."

"I don't think so." John said quietly. "Remember what we learned about the Black Lotus? That someone emptied their accounts and delivered the evidence against them. Even locations of their safe houses? I think this _Chimera_ is the one taking Moriarty's organization down. Or at least is helping someone do it.

"Fortunately, once I have questioned someone, I believe we will know the answers to a few of those questions." Mycroft turned his icy gaze back at Chase. "Until I receive conformation, do _not_ attempt to attack the system. I should have more information for you when we meet again next week." Mycroft said coldly. "Does everyone understand?"

Everyone gave brief, tense nods. They all understood.

Moriarty was back.

But this time, he would not escape.

* * *

True to his word, Mycroft came back to the Diogenes Club a week later as planned. Physically, he looked as pristine and polished as always.

Inwardly, he was exhausted.

"I have found the leak." Mycroft said without preamble. "The head programmer of our security system. His name is Fredrick Madison. Moriarty 'recruited' him while we had him in our custody. I had Mr. Madison brought to one of my interrogation facilities to tell him that I found out. Of course, I didn't tell him _how_."

John nodded grimly. _The less Moriarty and his underlings knew, the better._

Mycroft continued. "He became rather _distraught_ during questioning. We had a long discussion from which I succeeded in learning some interesting facts."

"As we have already deduced, it turns out that Moriarty's little organization is not as solid as we had originally thought. Like the Black Lotus, it is falling apart from within. Someone has been supplying Moriarty's enemies with information about his empire. Moriarty himself has personally assassinated several of his own employees, believing they had information as to who was the traitor. He believes that someone is working as a double agent and is supplying his enemies with information."

Mycroft paused, allowing his words to sink in. "However, Moriarty believes that the traitor, whoever it is, is contacting someone from the government. Namely, myself."

"But we don't have anyone in Moriarty's organization!" John said. "Do we?"

"No." Mycroft said flatly. "In order for one of my men to infiltrate Moriarty's group, they would have to go undercover for years. The last few agents I sent were all found out. Several were killed, two were tortured, and one was permanently blinded. I have not made the attempt since."

"Could it be another agency?" Chase wondered. "Maybe the CIA? Or Russia?"

"Perhaps." Mycroft allowed. "But surely my contacts would have been made aware of the situation before now. Unless _Chimera_ is working for one of them."

"But why does Moriarty think that the traitor is working for _you_?" John asked.

"According to Mr. Madison, the person who is delivering the blows to Moriarty's empire is extremely intelligent, to the point that he is anticipating Moriarty's moves before he even plans them. By using the information supplied to him by the traitor, this person or persons have been delivering Moriarty's associates to the local authorities, one by one."

Mycroft's smile was mocking as he looked at the group. "Moriarty believes that person could possibly be me. He knows I am one of the two people left with the mental intelligence that is equal to his."

"And you have a grudge against him. For what he did to Sherlock." John stated.

"But he bears a grudge against me too, Doctor. For it was I who took his sister away from him first." Mycroft explained.

* * *

Silence filled the room as Mycroft's words sunk in.

_This was unexpected._

"Oh! _DMP!_ Don't tell me! You _killed_ Moriarty's sister?" Chase moaned. His eyes went wide, and his expression was so horrified that it was almost painful for the others to look at.

"Your fears are unfounded, Mr. Douglas. I did not kill Moriarty's sister, nor did I have her killed. I saved her from his assassination attempt and relocated her to America, where she disappeared." Mycroft said, causally looking over his umbrella and paying close attention to the handle, as though the entire subject bored him.

"_Oh!_ Well, that's good!" Chase said, relieved.

"Why did you save Moriarty's sister?" Lestrade asked.

"Because Sherlock asked me to." Mycroft admitted.

"_What?_" John chocked out. "Did I hear you right? _Sherlock_ asked you to save Moriarty's sister?"

"It is _complicated._" Mycroft explained. "Do you recall me telling you about how I knew Danielle Morray?"

"The _Delphi_." Chase recalled. "The computer hacker. The one you think may be behind the operation to take out Moriarty's empire. What about her?"

Mycroft nodded. "Ms. Morray was much more than the _Delphi_. She is also Moriarty's sister."

"Whoa!" Chase exclaimed. "Moriarty has a sister?"

"His junior by three years." Mycroft explained. "And, according to my sources, they were never close."

Lestrade frowned. "Why would Moriarty's sister be after him?"

"She and her brother were children of an enforcer who worked in the Irish Mob. Danielle worked as a hacker, while James worked with his father as an enforcer and occasional assassin. However, James could not abide his position in the criminal organization, and sought to create one of his own. After James killed the rest of the family in order to consolidate his power, he changed his name to 'Moriarty' to hide his past and to build his own organization." Mycroft explained.

"And Danielle Morray was a loose end." John guessed.

"Correct, John. She left the organization long before Moriarty took over. Unlike her brother, Ms. Morray had a consciousness of sorts. She wanted to live her life free from the corrupt element that she was surrounded by for so long. As I said before, Ms. Morray had a knack of telling a lot about a person by the emotions she was able to feel from them. Along with her computer skills as a first class hacker, Moriarty very well could not let her go."

"Ms. Morray refused to work for her brother, so she fled to London, where she met Sherlock. She had hoped to hide her presence here, and she took measures to ensure that she would not be found."

"And while she was here, she met Sherlock?" Skylar asked.

Mycroft nodded. "By the time she met Sherlock, Ms. Morray had already hacked into the CCTV system and caused it to crash. _Several times_. In fact, the situation that currently affects the CCTV system is similiat to the event that Ms. Morray was responsible for almost nine years ago. Every time we were close to getting the system operational again, she found a way to by-pass our security and black out the CCTV system. For a few months, we had limited viewing of London as a whole. My superiors were _extremely_ displeased with the situation."

John laughed. "I bet that made Sherlock like her!"

Mycroft nodded absently. "You deduced the situation correctly, John. Sherlock was struggling with his infamously bad habits then, and he resented my attempts to watch over him. So he was going through a rebellious period, where he fled from my attempts to protect him. In fact, I have no doubt that, in order to confound me, he encouraged the headaches that Ms. Morray was causing me. Also, I deduce that they found they were rather similar, despite the fact that Ms. Morray was extroverted and ruled by her emotions, whereas Sherlock was solitary by nature and preferred logic. They could both read people, although in different ways."

"Let me get this straight! Sherlock, the man who swears off emotions in every form, was once friends with someone who could find out things about people based on their _emotions_?" John asked incredulously.

"In many ways, Ms. Morray was the complete opposite of Sherlock." Mycroft explained, his face void of expression. "Ms. Morray, for her part, must have been intrigued by someone who could do the same thing she could do without using a person's emotions."

"So she's like fire, and he is like ice." Skylar observed.

Mycroft ignored Skylar's comment. "One night, I get a call from my brother for the first time in months. It seems that despite all her intelligence and precautions, Danielle Morray was found out and nearly killed by Moriarty. Sherlock found her, gravely injured from several bullet wounds, hiding under a bridge. Sherlock asked for my assistance, on Ms. Morray's behalf."

"_Sherlock_, asking _you_ for help?" John asked, surprised. "Sherlock _never_ asks for your help! At least, not willingly. Was he fall in love with Ms. Morray or something?"

Mycroft sniffed dismissively. "We Holmes do not deal with emotions, least of all the ridiculous concept of romantic love."

"Then how did you and Sherlock come to be if there was no romance involved?" Chase asked incredulously.

Mycroft chose to ignore that question, as he did earlier with Skylar's comment. "After a rather lengthy and exhausting conversation, I agreed to move Ms. Morray to a safe location, under a new alias. She dropped the alias after three months in hiding, and disappeared altogether until October of last year, when my contacts in America informed me that she died of advanced Non-Hodgkins lymphomia a month prior."

"It took you a _month_ to confirm it?" Skylar asked.

Mycroft sighed. "She was under an assumed name at the time, and she managed to delete nearly everything about her existence before she died. So it took some time to confirm the rumor."

"So what changed?" Skylar asked.

"Once I began to suspect that Ms. Morray was involved, I had my agents go to Savannah, Georgia to exhume the body. However, the coffin was empty."

"_Whoa!_" Chase said. "So the _Delphi_ faked her death? OMG!"

"And now that you checked and found that her body is missing, you think Ms. Morray is doing the same thing Moriarty did." Lestrade muttered. "I wish Sherlock would have done that!"

"If Sherlock had faked his death, Inspector, he would have contacted me by now." Mycroft affirmed quietly. "As resourceful as my brother was, it is inconceivable that he could have went after Moriarty's lieutenants without government help. If he had done it on his own, it would have taken years, maybe even a decade, to track them down. He had the mental capacity, but not the resources. Ms. Morray, on the other hand, has access to both."

The room was silent for a few minutes before Skylar chose to speak. "So you are saying that Ms. Morray is the only one capable of doing this."

"Yes." Mycroft said. "At least, the only one outside the government. You see, like her brother, Ms. Morray has her own network as well. She works to help people 'disappear' and occasionally assassinate those who work directly for Moriarty, mostly those who are directly threatening her own clients. She is known as _'The Raven.' _Her main goal has beento protect the others against Moriarty's wrath."

"So she's an assassin?" Lestrade asked.

"_She_ would prefer the term 'consulting vigilante,' Inspector." Mycroft answered. "But this current activity is completely uncharacteristic from the pattern she has displayed over the years. Normally, Ms. Morray would only kill those that Moriarty had sent after her or those under her protection. The authorities were rarely, if ever, made aware of it."

"But that's not what's happening now!" John noted. "This time, someone is actively attacking Moriarty's organization!"

Mycroft paused, then quietly fiddled around with the handle of his umbrella. "There are other discrepencies as well. For some reason, the Raven is now focusing on capturing Moriarty's men, not killing them, and is delivering proof to ensure their convictions. Why Ms. Morray is changing her _modus operandi_ now is a mystery to me and to others who have been attempting to watch her methods."

"This woman, Ms. Morray? Was she close to Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"They were geniuses who didn't get along with their older siblings." Skylar observed. "I say they were probably _friendly_ with one another."

"I believe you are correct, Ms. Simmons." Mycroft mentioned. "But it is for this reason that Moriarty bears me ill will. I denied him his sister, by sending her to safety. So he saw fit to take my brother. An eye for an eye, as it were."

"So he knows that you moved Ms. Morray to a safe location." Lestrade asked, lapsing into "Inspector" mode as he continued asking questions. "But did he know that Sherlock knew her?"

"No, Lestrade. That was one of the few secrets I kept to myself." Mycroft grimaced in distaste. "I thought Moriarty was planning vengeance against my person. It was _I_ who moved his sister out of his reach, after all. Had I known _how_ he planned to use the information I gave him, he would have learned _nothing_ about Sherlock from me!"

"About time you came to that conclusion, Mycroft!" John spat out, unable to hold back the venom in his voice. Although he had agreed to work with Mycroft, that didn't mean that he would receive understanding from him for selling out his brother.

Mycroft fixed John with a stern glare. "You must understand something, Doctor. There was a very good reason why I chose to deal with Moriarty in the first place. During my conversations with Moriarty, he claimed he had access to the 'binary code.' I knew, of course, that there is no code in existence that can hack into any secured system."

"Then why talk to him at all?" Skylar asked.

Mycroft paused. "During the course of my interogations with Moriarty, I deduced that when he told me he had the binary code, what Moriarty was really saying was that he knew where his sister was hiding, or perhaps had already had her as a prisoner somewhere. You see, Ms. Morray is one of the few people capable of hacking into secure government systems and be virtually untraceable. Had she been captured by Moriarty, he would have been unstoppable. So I did what I did to secure a potential security risk!"

Mycroft stopped talking for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone was softer, without his usual confidence. "But as you are all aware, Moriarty lied about having the binary code, and my brother was a victim of my misguided efforts." Mycroft observed flatly.

"Everyone makes mistakes, DMP! Hell, even I make mistakes!" Chase said sympathetically.

"That does not help me feel any better about my failure, Mr. Douglas." Mycroft said, sarcasm practically dripping from his low voice.

Chase smirked. "So now we know Moriarty's sister is involved. But we still don't know how the Chimera is involved in all of this!"

"Maybe she adopted the codename _Chimera_ and has been working with someone in Moriarty's organization. Either that or she has the _Chimera_ working for her!" Skylar pointed out.

"Still, we do know Moriarty's sister is involved. Remember the two people who broke into Milverton's mansion and destroyed all of that blackmail material?" John pointed out. "One was definitely a woman."

"It is possible." Mycroft allowed. "The woman in the video was similar in height and build as Ms. Morray."

"You seem uncertain." Lestrade pointed out, studying Mycroft's expression for any signs as to what he was thinking.

"I am still missing essential data." Mycroft said quietly. "Although I will agree that until another possibility presents itself, then the person most likely to be behind all of this would have to be Danielle Morray."

The room was thick with tension as everyone mulled over this new theory. John himself felt his mind spin as he considered the possibility.

Whoever was taking down Moriarty's organization was at least as smart as Moriarty himself. Already, the person succeeded in doing what no other world government could do, and in a short amount of time, too. If Mycroft wasn't behind it (and John wasn't sure he could believe _anything_ Mycroft said at this point), then Moriarty's sister seemed like a likely candidate.

Also, whoever was involved seemed to know enough about Moriarty to anticipate his next moves.

_Who better to do that than his own flesh and blood?_

_Could Danielle Morray really be the one working to take Moriarty's organization apart?_

_And if so, who was helping her?_

_And why?_

* * *

**Author's Note**: Once again, a special thanks to Missy the Least, chaoticmom, MsSherlocked, MoonlitIvy, and raveoak21 for volunteering for this story. I originally needed just two, but after further consideration, I thought five would work. I am sorry you all couldn't punch Moriarty, or he may have gotten suspicious. I simply put all your names in a hat, and drew one out, and ravenoak21 got to hit Moriarty! Still, I appreciate you participation!

Sorry about all the technical talk! Most of it (the black hat, white hat, grey hat hacker stuff) I got from wikipedia. The rest (the programmer's trap door) is information I learned from my clients. LOL!

So, Mycroft and company know that the Raven is the one responsible in the destruction of Moriarty's web. So let's go over what we have learned so far, in order to avoid any confusion my obvious rambling may have caused.

1. Dani, the woman mentioned in the Prologue, is Danielle Morray, Moriarty's younger sister. She runs her own private web, where she hides people from her brother and occasionally assasinates his employees. Her web is almost as powerful as her brother's, except that it is better at hiding in the shadows and seems to exist solely to defend its members against Moriarty. The picture attached to this story is of her.

2. Mycroft has revealed that Sherlock and Danielle once knew each other, nine years previously. Sherlock was doing drugs, and thanks to Danielle's ability to hack into the CCTV system and turn it off, he could live without his brother's "protection" for a few months. After Moriarty almost succeeded in killing her, Sherlock contacts Mycroft and convinces him to help her out. Wonder how Sherlock pulled that off?

3. Obviously, the Raven has changed. Instead of the covert hide-and-seek game that has been going on, the Raven is actively attacking Moriarty's empire and delivering it wholesale to the authorities. Why the change in methods? And why is it so important to go after Moriarty now, after so many years? Could our favorite consulting detective have something to do with it?

4. A new player has entered the game. Who the heck is the Chimera? How does he (or she) fit into all of this?

In the next chapter, the Raven finally comes to London, as well as an "unexpected" partner. And if you think you have it figured out, you may be in for a surprise!

**Disclaimer: ** ".kcolrehS" nwo t'nod I. (I don't own "Sherlock."-backwards!)

**OC Chase Douglas**-Peaceful Defender, this is great! How smart is that? So Danielle Morray is after her brother Moriarty! So, what can you tell us about her? Is she as smart as Moriarty?

**Peaceful Defender**-In my personal opinion, she is smarter. Much, much smarter.

**OC Chase Douglas**-Really? Cool! But there are still so many unanswered questions!

**Peaceful Defender**-Forget it! I'm not giving anything away! All I can promise you is that the Raven and a guest will come to London in the next chapter.

**Mycroft Holmes**-Nevertheless, Peaceful Defender, I can't help but view the current situation with much trepidation. I have read your file...

**Peaceful Defender**-You have a file on me?

**Mycroft Holmes**-I have a file on everyone. There is no need to be alarmed. However, you are known to be...how shall I phase this diplomatically? Unpredictable, when it comes to your creative outlet. No doubt it is due to the mundane existance of your career and life, and you secretly crave a little excitement.

**Peaceful Defender**-So, basically you are implying that I write stories just to mess with people's heads? No! Heck, my head is messed up enough as it is! I'm even talking to you guys, and you don't _exist!_

**OC Chase Douglas**-Hey, she's right! Maybe we should let her take a nap, or something! When she goes thirty something hours without sleep, she can get moody!

Peaceful Defender-_Wait!_ Before I drift off, I want to once again thank everyone who has read this story. I also want to thank my volunteers again for their help! Reviews to me is like nicoteen patches are to Sherlock, so please review!


	12. Chapter 11

**At last! The Raven comes to London, with a partner in toll! Let's see what happens, shall we?**

**Warning: Several flashbacks, some self-reflection, some violence, a brief mention of sex, and a big twist in the story line! **

**Please don't kill me!**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Homecoming**

"What an insidious drug memory can be. Especially the memory of unhappiness." Horace Holley, _His Luck_

* * *

_October 29__st__. One year and six months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. _

It was ten minutes past one in the morning when Sherlock Holmes finally entered his home country after a eighteen months long absence.

He couldn't help pausing for just a moment before exiting the plane and stepping onto the ground of his beloved London. He felt a slight warming in his chest, which he quickly pushed down. _Now is not the time for sentiment._

He had hoped to enter the airport earlier, when it was full of bustling crowds, which would have served him well as a cover. But his plane was delayed due to turbulence, so the crowds he was hoping for were almost non-existent. The lobby of the terminal was now only partly filled with the early-morning people.

Business men with pouches of weariness under their eyes, harried looking couples dragging around herds of screaming, grouchy children, even the occasional airport security guard giving luggage a cursory check while yawning. The loudspeaker system sounded from above, announcing arrivals and departures like some omnipotent voice in a dream.

A few feet away, Sherlock spied a middle-aged woman arguing with a young boy, who appeared to be in the midst of some sort of tantrum. The boy's wails woke up the sleepy infant the woman was cradling, who soon joined his brother in the commotion.

"Despicable behavior." Muttered Sherlock's traveling companion, her bluish-grey eyes full of disdain. "To act that way and wake his brother up! And all because he left his coloring book on the plane!"

Sherlock grinned despite himself. "Why do you think he is upset about a coloring book? Maybe it's a favorite toy?"

His companion looked up at Sherlock. "See his hands? They are covered with marker stains. They are fresh, too. I also see two markers sticking out of his trouser pocket. But he has no coloring book to be seen. I deduce he worked on it throughout the flight, and was going to show it to someone. Not his father, though. See how the woman has a white line on her finger, but no ring. They are divorced, and no father would ask his ex to bring the kids in the middle of the night. So it is probably a grandparent that the boy is fond of. My guess would be his grandmother, since one of the two markers is pink."

"Not bad." Sherlock nodded approvingly. "It would appear that you are _slightly more intelligent_ than the majority of the population."

"_Only slightly more intelligent?_" His companion said. "_Please_, I am a genius! A genius surrounded by morons! Present company excluded, of course."

Sherlock smirked. "I wonder how you would react if you lost your Kindle!"

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "_I_ wouldn't cry. I'll simply berate myself for being so careless as to have misplaced it. Then I would save enough money before I could go buy another one." The little girl sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"Here." Sherlock said. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of sunglasses. "Remember what we learned. Block it out, as much as you can."

"Sometimes I wonder if I can _ever_ block it out!" The girl muttered fretfully as she put on the sunglasses. "Have you ever blocked it all out, Dad?"

Sherlock didn't lie to her. He never understood why parents lied to their children. _It just hurt them worse when they learned the truth. _

"No, Sheridan. I have never been able to block it out." Sherlock replied.

"So your brain doesn't give you a break either?" Sheridan asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. The best advice I can give you is that you learn how to deal with it. When I was your age, I was overwhelmed sometimes. It is very…well, disconcerting. But it got better as I got older."

The tiny girl nodded. "I understand." She looked around the semi-deserted airport. "So what do we do now?"

"We need to find somewhere to go, to hide out for a while. After that, then we will make plans." Sherlock replied calmly, trying to be casual as he glanced around. However, Sheridan noticed that her father was scanning the crowd.

"Do you think those Bad Men know we're here?" Sheridan asked, pale features pinched slightly in alarm as she moved closer to her father.

"I don't know." Sherlock said. "But we will worry about that later." Standing there made him feel exposed, and he felt an overwhelming urge to run.

_Despite his efforts to disguise his and Sheridan's appearances, England was still not safe for them…_

"Let's go and get a hotel room for tonight. Then we will talk more about what we will do tomorrow."

Sheridan made a face. "I don't want to go to bed! I'm not tired!"

"I didn't ask you if you were tired. Let's get a cab." Sherlock sighed. Though his daughter was not a typical child (she was remarkably intelligent for her age), she could be downright _stubborn_ when it came down to things such as eating and sleeping regularly_. _

_He still couldn't figure out where she got it from!_

"Let's get out of here before _they_ have a chance to find us." Sherlock repeated, glancing around again.

The girl nodded in agreement and grabbed her carry-on bag. She didn't need to be told twice who Sherlock was referring to.

* * *

One hour later, Sherlock was quietly unpacking the suitcases and putting his and Sheridan's belongings in the closet. Despite her earlier protests, Sheridan had quickly fallen asleep soon after arriving at the hotel, and she was now snoring softly in one of the double beds that the hotel room provided. The blonde wig she was wearing earlier was tossed haphazardly to the floor, revealing a mass of ebony curls that hung down the girl's shoulders.

They were currently traveling under the names of Andrew and Charlene McGee, names that Sheridan had picked out because they were characters in a book that her mother had read call "Firestarter."

Although she hadn't read the book herself (Mom said she was too young), she _did_ know what it was about. She explained to Sherlock that the book was about a fugitive father and daughter on the run from a branch of the American Government because the father had the ability to control people's minds, while the girl had the ability of pryokinesis, or the ability to start fires with her mind.

_"It makes sense."_ Sheridan had explained earlier. _"We are freaks too, on the run from_ _people who wish to do us harm." _

Sherlock didn't even bother to argue with Sheridan's assessment that they were freaks. To him, a freak was a word that haunted him since childhood. To Sheridan, the word "freak" had a positive connotation to it. She considered the word to be a compliment, which was something she learned from her mother.

_Danielle Morray. _

The first person Sherlock had met who truly understood what it was like to be different.

_Like him._

* * *

They had met almost nine years ago, in one of the drug dens that Sherlock frequented before he got clean. Of course, they went there for different reasons. Sherlock went to get the drugs that would bring him relief from the incessant flow of his thoughts and the mundane state of his existence.

For Dani, it was another matter entirely. She sought refuge of a different sort in the dirty, condemned building.

Maybe not the best choice, when you are a young, pretty woman surrounded by criminals and men who were high on every drug imaginable, but her options were limited at the time.

Sherlock still remembered seeing Danielle enter the dilapidated doorway, trying to hide her face into the collar of her brown leather coat. Her brown eyes glanced around worriedly as she considered going back out into the rain to seek another place of shelter.

Even through the fog of drugs, Sherlock couldn't help but gaze at her.

For one thing, she was _interesting_.

_A young woman of Irish descent, judging by her features and her light auburn hair. Marvelously clear complexion. Medium height, slim athletic build. Dressed in a light blue sweater, faded jeans, and a worn, brown leather jacket. Hands shoved deep in her pockets, as though she was hiding something. She was nervous, chewing her bottom lip as she glanced from left to right, scanning the area for any potential threats._

Their eyes met, and instead of disgust, neither could look away from each other. It wasn't "love at first sight," which John foolishly believed in. It was something different. Something that went beyond emotions or logic.

Yet Sherlock immediately knew why he was suddenly drawn to this woman. Without saying a word to each other, Sherlock instinctively knew.

_She was like him._

The woman seemed to come to the same conclusion as well. She refused to take her eyes off of Sherlock, even though he looked exactly what he was; a pathetic drug user, arms bruised and bleeding from the latest injections, hair unwashed for some time, and eyes dilated from his latest attempts to get high.

But there was no judgment in her warm brown eyes. There was no pity either. Only calm acceptance and understanding.

The woman found a corner of the building and curled up there, fatigue evident in her motions. She soon fell into a deep slumber. Later, several men, high on whatever drugs and alcohol they consumed, saw the sleeping woman huddled in the corner and quickly restrained her before she had any chance to fight them off.

A woman being attacked was a common enough occurrence, and none of the drug den's customers felt the need to come to her aid.

_As long as they got their fix, nothing else mattered._

But for some odd reason, Sherlock chose not to stand by and watch while the woman struggled in the hands of her attackers. But if someone asked him why, he was still at a loss to explain.

He was a high-functioning sociopath, after all. He didn't care about people. Yet somehow he found himself launching himself onto one of the men and punching him in the face.

The other men released Danielle to throw Sherlock to the ground and proceeded to kick him, over and over, as he curled into a protective ball. Hard boots dug into his ribs and stomped on his head.

_He couldn't escape._

And then, suddenly, there was a loud bang, followed quickly by several others in rapid succession. After the barrage of hits stopped, Sherlock cautiously opened one eye to see the mysterious woman standing firmly over him. The bodies of their attackers, all three of them, were lying around him in various positions, victims of a single gun-shot bullet to the head. The left leg of her jeans was pulled up slightly, partially revealing the hoister her pistol was kept earlier. The woman's eyes, so warm before, were now cold, blank, and uncaring.

_This was not the first time she had killed a person. _Sherlock noted to himself.

She looked around the room to see if any of the other "customers" were about to make any attempt to flee or to attack. When she saw that they were either too scared or too high to know what was going on, she trained her gun on Sherlock.

"_Get up!_" She ordered. "Don't attempt to escape, or I'll kill you!"

"I wasn't aware that people who worked with computers all day ever needed to carry weapons." Sherlock rejoined through his cut lip.

The woman merely tilted her head to the side, heedless to the fact she was now splattered with the blood of her attackers. Sherlock had never seen a woman more coolly composed. "Not another word, or you join them! Now get up!"

Groaning, Sherlock disengaged himself from the bleeding bodies and stood up to stare at the woman. "So, what now?"

"Now?" The woman said, self-consciously chewing her lip, as if she was debating something. "Now, you come with me."

"Very well." Sherlock said. Pulling his coat tighter around his battered frame (which he was relieved to note that at least he didn't suffer any broken bones), he limped out of the building, followed closely by the shooter with fire-like hair. They walked through the maze of London's alleys in silence for several minutes.

"_Well?_" The woman finally asked.

"_Well?_" Sherlock shot back as he continued walking slowly.

"Aren't you going to beg for your life?" The woman asked haughtily.

"I don't need to." Sherlock replied. "You aren't going to shoot me."

The woman stopped in her tracks. "You are a witness!"

Sherlock scoffed. "If _that_ was your reason, then why didn't you kill the rest of those people back there?"

"Because _they_ are not a threat!" The woman replied.

"And I am." Sherlock turned around and stared at his abductor.

"Yes!" The woman said tensely. "You are!"

"Because I'm just like you." Sherlock said coolly.

The woman glanced at him, expression softening slightly. "Yes. We _are_ alike, aren't we? I saw you studying me back there. You were not just seeing me, were you? You were _reading _me. But I am having a hard time reading you. You are shielding me rather well."

"Shielding?" Sherlock asked.

The woman nodded. "I can read people by the emotions they are feeling. But you are doing a great job of hiding yours. I bet you even hide them from yourself!" The mysterious woman said.

Wordlessly, she secured the safety on her gun and pocketed it in her leather jacket. She then began wiping the blood off her face with her sleeve. Sherlock watched her calmly, wondering why she didn't keep the gun trained on him.

_"Probably because she knows you have no plans to attack her."_ He mentally told himself.

"You can read people too, can't you? Just not in the same way. You read people in a different way. You see people and can figure out details about them. Their family, education, home, where they are going. You can do all that. " The woman finally said as she finished wiping the incriminating blood off of her, her eyes calm once more.

"I can 'read' people." Sherlock confirmed. "For example, I know you were born in Ireland, to a rich family who engages in criminal activities. You have a talent with computers. The jacket you are wearing once belonged to a relative. Your father, I believe. I deduce that you work as a hacker. You keep your nails cut short, because long nails affects your typing. You have a background in weapons training and martial arts, but the stress of running away from your family has exhausted you, which allowed you to be attacked so easily tonight."

"What makes you think my family is after me?" The woman asked curiously. Strangely enough, there was no censure or fear in her tone.

"You made the observation that I could read people. Yet you are not surprised that I can do so. You only express surprise that I can deduce facts about people without observing their emotions. So you have prior knowledge of someone with a similar talent to your own. But it is also someone you know. I deduce it is your sibling, because genius tends to run in families. Besides, why else would you be running, with your superior intellect, unless the person after you had intelligence similar to yours?" Sherlock pointed out.

The woman actually grinned at this statement. "Seems like we both have a lot in common!" She smirked when Sherlock tensed up slightly. "We _both_ have older brothers. Your brother is bent on spying on you and interfering with your life, am I right? He's also a member of the British Government. And no, I didn't get that from your emotions. I saw you glance up at that CCTV camera back there, even though it is well hidden. But I already took out the surveillance system! So no one can see or hear us right now. Don't expect the calvary to come to your rescue!"

"I don't need anyone's assistance, least of all my brother's!" Sherlock spat out.

She studied Sherlock's face, her smirk widening. "You're _pleased_ that he isn't watching, even though he is unable to help you. _Interesting!_ It looks like I am not the only one with a brother I would rather live without!" The woman paused, no doubt trying to deduce more about Sherlock by using his current irritation and anger regarding Mycroft.

"Your brother is protective, isn't he? Yet he also belittles your choices. You don't like him. I can't say the feelings are entirely unjustified. He has let you down in the past, hasn't he?"

Sherlock forced himself to ignore the anger he felt whenever he thought of his brother. "That is none of your business."

The woman watched him for a moment, then grinned. "_Very good!_ You mastered the ability to disconnect from emotions completely! Very few people have that ability! I am barely getting anything from you at all! But consider yourself fortunate. _My_ brother is trying to hunt me down. When he does, he will kill me." The woman finished smugly. "I say I got the worse lot."

Sherlock was uncomfortable. Apart from Mycroft, he wasn't used to having someone else analysis things about him. "I must admit, I never expected to come across another person who had, shall we say, unique abilities. But your skill comes from _feeling_ people's emotions. And you are not as unaffected as you seem. When you killed those men back there, you were still able to feel for them, even though you blocked it out at the time. Despite what you may think, you are not a cold-blooded killer. You have trouble sleeping at night, and the cuts on your wrists are from self-mutilation, as a means of releasing the pain you feel as well as a self-deluded means of atonement. This is sometime mistaken as suicide attempts, are they not?"

The woman glared furiously at him. "So you saw the scars on my arms, huh? And the ones you have from injecting yourself? Like a common-place _addict_? Are your drug overdoses sometimes mistaken for suicide attempts? With your intelligence, you deserve better than that!"

"So Mycroft keeps telling me." Sherlock muttered.

The woman blushed, suddenly embarrassed. "I guess I should thank you. For saving my life back there." Her voice became soft, almost apologetic. "Maybe I should even spare your life."

"Don't bother doing me any favors!" Sherlock turned and began walking away. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath. I don't care about people's emotions. Least of all yours!"

"Is that what you think of yourself?" The woman called at his retreating back. "That's disappointing, because I would have thought you were a _freak!_"

Sherlock froze in place.

Did she just call him a _freak_? _That same word that haunted him since childhood?_

"I like freaks, you know." The woman continued, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock's reaction. "Freaks are wonderful people. They break boundaries, make changes, and find their own path in this world." She spoke as though being called a _freak_ was supposed to be a compliment.

"And you." Sherlock turned to the woman. "Are _you_ a freak?"

The woman looked down sadly at her blood-splattered clothes. "Hardly! I wish I was, though! But I'm like my brother. We're _monsters._ And there is a huge difference between us and you."

"And what difference is that?" Sherlock asked, curious as to what the young woman would say.

The red-haired beauty regarded him sadly. "Monsters, especially those like my brother, know how to break people. That's all we are good for! Given the choice, I would prefer to be a freak!"

* * *

That brief encounter with the beautiful woman changed Sherlock's life in so many ways, even though he didn't realize it at the time.

They parted ways in that alley that night. Neither of them mentioned what had happened since. And yet, somehow, they continued to bump into each other from time to time.

While Sherlock continued to indulge in his cocaine addiction, Danielle lived among the homeless. Although she could have easily used her skills as a hacker to wire money to herself and make sure it would be virtually untraceable, she refused, preferring to live "off the grid."

The fact that she arranged for the CCTV cameras to stop working, thus allowing Sherlock to live "off the grid" as well and live a few months free from the prying eyes of his brother, was more than enough to endear Danielle to Sherlock, making her company tolerable for him.

When they did meet, they would sit down and watch the people pass by, pointing out facts about their lives and occasionally sharing stories. Danielle was far the more talkative of the two, but Sherlock listened, even though most of what she said was "utter nonsense."

When he pointed that out to her, she didn't take offense.

In truth, Sherlock had lived alone for so long that he was _somewhat_ receptive to Danielle's company, even if it was nothing more than that. And Danielle, who had cut herself off from her past, was hungry for human companionship, even willing to endure Sherlock's sullenness to get it. A mutual understanding, brought about from similar disgust of their families and their independent natures, formed between the two outcasts.

Despite her desire to see the best in people (which was _annoying_, as most of the population had no redeeming qualities as far as Sherlock was concerned), she was almost as intelligent as Sherlock, and her unorthodox ways of viewing the world was _intriguing_, at the very least.

It was his idea to go to a crime scene the first time, but she went willingly. Together, they watched from the other side of the yellow police tape, with Sherlock pointing out every mistake the officers were making (as well as personal details about their lives), and Danielle doing her best not to giggle and draw attention to themselves.

It was a good thing no one noticed them.

The second time they arrived at a crime scene, it was Dani's idea to hack into the Yard's mainframe and leave tips as to the killer's identity behind. Sherlock agreed, and for the next few months, they left behind anonymous tips, just to see how the Yard would react.

It turned out to be fun to watch them get flustered every time!

Danielle was enthusiatic about everything, and she followed Sherlock around as he guided her through the shadier parts of London. With his help, she learned which places were the ones someone like her could expect shelter. She also learned whom among the homeless were dangerous and which ones were trustworthy. She drank in everything that Sherlock taught her, eager to learn skills that would assist her in her new life one the run.

In return, Danielle kept a close eye on all police communications, and she would often come to drag Sherlock out of the drug dens long before the police arrived, so that he wouldn't get caught.

Not that it happened all that often, though. When Dani was with Sherlock, it somehow made it easier for him to lessen the urge to use drugs. Maybe because she was such a distraction. Maybe because she seemed so sad whenever she carried him out of the drug dens, and he felt...what did he feel?

_Upset? Disappointed with himself? Shame? What?_

It wasn't as though she lectured him. In fact, when he was going through the inevitable withdraw symptoms, she was there to hold his head while he vomited, or stay by him when he was mumbling nonsense. And she never said one word about responsibility or obligation or family honor or anything that made Sherlock cringe.

"I wish you _would_ stop." She whispered one night.

"Why should you care?" He retorted.

Danielle bit her lip, considering. "I... like you. You're interesting! And I don't want you to die."

Sherlock scoffed as he shivered violently on the floor, a thin blanket (one of the few Dani had) covering him. "People inevitably die! That's what we do!"

"I know." Dani whispered wearily. Her voice held no reproach. "But how many of us actually _live_? And besides, think how boring death can be!"

A million answers came to Sherlock's mind (most of them either insulting or derogatory), but somehow the words died on his lips. So he kept his mouth shut.

If Danielle was able to talk to him and not go on about how much of a disappointment he was, it seemed unrealistic to push her away.

He told himself he was just keeping her company because her continued existance meant freedom from Mycroft and his overbearing ways.

But maybe he was just lonely too.

* * *

And then one night, after a rather peaceful day of hanging out together and a crazy night of racing away from the Yard (after they wrote their latest tip as to who the killer was on the back of one of the officer's cars, in permanent marker!), they hid out in an old, condemned building, far away from the sights and sounds of London.

And then_ it_ happened.

Sherlock didn't know why he did it. He had never been interested in sex before, with _anyone._ Danielle was the first person he was ever intimate with.

When he woke up later, still huddled beside her for warmth after they both fell asleep, he was unable to logically deduce what happened that led to this unexpected sequence of events.

So he told himself that he was merely experimenting.

Danielle, true to form, seemed to sense what Sherlock was thinking and also said nothing on the matter, pretending all was normal.

Either that, or she was at a loss to explain what had happened, too.

* * *

And then, a few nights later, Sherlock came across Danielle's bleeding body under a bridge that he sought shelter under when the weather turned cold. Gasping and coughing up blood, Danielle explained that her brother, Jimmy, had finally tracked her down and sent a sniper to kill her. She had barely escaped and dragged herself to the bridge, where she knew Sherlock would come.

Sherlock _knew_ he didn't love Danielle. He was a sociopath, after all, and thus incapable of human feelings. But it seemed a waste that such an intelligent and interesting woman should perish. The world would become…duller than it already was.

So Sherlock did something that he only considered doing in the direst circumstances. He called his brother for help.

* * *

Mycroft, as usual, berated his brother for his recklessness and irresponsible actions. For the drugs, and striking up a friendship with Danielle Morray, a.k.a. _Delphi_, one of the most skilled computer hackers in the world, as well as a former member of the Irish mob.

Mycroft wanted Danielle locked up, in retaliation for blacking out the CCTV cameras for so long. Sherlock pointedly reminded him that should Danielle be turned over to the authorities, Sherlock himself would also be arrested, or at least suspected, of harboring a criminal.

That was enough to make Mycroft hold off any decision in regards to Danielle's fate.

Danielle, despite her injuries, was adament that she got a chance to speak to Mycroft. Even weak, with her face extremely pale from blood loss, she nevertheless was a picture of strength and courage as she faced Mycroft from her hospital bed located at the facility she was taken to.

Instead of being remorseful, Danielle repeatedly defended her actions, insisting her brother, James, was a very dangerous man, and she had no choice in the matter. She warned Mycroft, over and over, that the day would come when her brother would one day have a criminal empire so vast that it would rival the resources of the world governments.

Mycroft, for his part, was secretly impressed by the daring woman, but it wasn't enough for him to take her seriously.

After a heated exchange, Sherlock did the only thing he could to save his friend (yes, he could admit it now, Danielle _was_ a friend.) In return for Sherlock voluntarily going to a detox center, Mycroft was to spirit Danielle away to parts unknown and give her a new life and identity, as far away from her brother as possible.

After Danielle was transported to an undisclosed location after being treated for the bullet wounds she received at the hands of the sniper that James sent to kill her, Sherlock never saw her again. However, he received a text on his phone a few hours after Danielle departed on a private jet that Mycroft provided.

He knew, without seeing the number, who sent the text to him.

_I'll never forget what you did for me. Whenever you have need, I'll find a way to help. A monster's promise to a freak. And you will find that I keep my promises.-DM_

* * *

That had been so many years ago. Sherlock went to detox as promised and completed it, but soon relapsed again. This cycle continued until he met Lestrade, who gave him cases on condition that he stayed off the drugs. And he did, though he had a relapse once or twice over the years.

Then he met Mrs. Hudson, whom he saved from her abusive ex-husband. In return, she provided him a flat and often treated him like a son.

And, finally, he met John.

John was amazed by Sherlock's gift, even going so far as to treat him like a person. _Like a friend._ Yet Sherlock was sure that one day, John would grow tired of Sherlock's antics and leave, just like everyone else.

For once, Sherlock was wrong. John didn't leave.

_Sherlock did._

Originally, Sherlock had planned to never return to London. He knew the impossibility of the task he set out to do. To go after Moriarty's empire, without help, would take at least a decade. He also knew that he would likely die in the attempt.

Sherlock decided from the very beginning that he couldn't go to his brother for help. Even if he ignored the betrayal his brother committed, (and he _would_ have, if it meant saving John), he couldn't because he knew that Moriarty had at least one spy working for him in the British government.

_How else did Moriarty bypass the CCTV system to block out what was happening on the roof at Bart's Hospital?_

If he had went to Mycroft after faking his death, then Moriarty would _certainly_ have found out. And that would have meant death for Lestrade, Ms. Hudson, and John.

Even _Mycroft_ would have been put at risk. And as much as Sherlock openly despised his older brother, he never wanted him _dead_.

Besides, Mummy wouldn't like that.

So Sherlock resigned himself to the task of trying to take apart Moriarty's empire on his own, even though he knew the situation was decidedly not in his favor.

* * *

It was only several months after the events at Bart's that he received a package in the mail, addressed to his alias at the time. In the package were two letters.

One letter was from Cassie Morgan (a.k.a. Danielle Morray), who had somehow learned that Sherlock was still alive and had managed to track him down.

It seemed that the monster did remember the freak she once met in the dark alleys of London. And she also remembered the promise she made him. The letter contained many things, including an offer to help Sherlock with his mission, as well as a plan to assist him in keeping his friends safe.

But if Sherlock was surprised about being contacted by an old acquaintance he last saw almost a decade ago, he was shocked to learn that Danielle was not alone, as was evidenced by the six-by-eight photograph of a little girl with dark hair and all-too-familiar eyes, which was included in the letter.

The second letter was from a Ms. Atkins, and was significantly shorter than Danielle's letter. With typed precision, Ms. Atkins stated that "Ms. Morgan" had passed away a few days prior from terminal cancer. Ms. Atkins requested for "Patrick Covington," the name that Sherlock was known by at the time, to come right away. Ms. Atkins explained that she was Ms. Morgan's legal counsel, and "there is something that Ms. Morgan has bequeathed to you in her final will and testament."

* * *

"Mr. Covington. Thank you for coming on such short notice. My name is Chelsea Atkins." Said the kind-faced young woman with golden hair that hung past her shoulders and was curled neatly at the ends. She wore a black suite with matching dress shoes. "Won't you please have a seat?"

Sherlock set down quickly in one of the leather chairs inside the attorney's office.

Ms. Atkins nodded approvingly. "Before we begin…"

"You have to confirm my identity. On orders from your former client. Very well. You are a solicitor, mid-thirties, recently engaged, coming from a family of teachers. You love Italian food, tend to be an evening person, and you are extremely talented with legal documents, such as wills and contracts. You are on orders from Cassandra Morgan, a.k.a. Danielle Morray, to deliver some important papers as well as a minor child into the sole custody of a man who calls himself 'Patrick Covington.'"

"Correct, Mr. Covington. Or do you prefer _Mr. Holmes?_" Ms. Atkins asked pointedly.

"Mr. Holmes died a few months ago." Sherlock retorted. "He doesn't exist."

"As you wish." The woman said, green eyes gleaming with good humor. It was obvious she knew _exactly_ who was in front of her, but she chose not to press the issue. "And yes, my client did leave some instructions."

Quietly, she handed Sherlock a black leather suitcase. "Everything you need is in there. As you know, my client has a network of her own. If there is such a thing as a _consulting detective_ and a _consulting criminal_, then I suppose that Ms. Morray would be the '_consulting vigilante.' _Because of that, she was able to collect alot of data about Moriarty's empire over the years."

"What does this have to do with me?" Sherlock asked.

Ms. Atkins smiled. "My client left you a great sum of money, entrusted in a Swiss Bank account under terms of the upmost secrecy. The instructions on how to access that account is included in those papers I just gave you."

"And the rest of this paperwork includes information." Sherlock said softly. "Danielle deduced I was planning on going after her brother's empire, and she left information that would assist me in my endeavor."

"That's correct." Ms. Atkins confirmed. "And not just information, either. There is also a list of contacts and trained assassins that she has hired from time to time. You see, my client helped save and hide several people away from 'Mr. Brooks' over the years, as well as take out several of his henchmen who have 'threatened' her clients."

"Which includes you." Sherlock muttered.

"Yes." Ms. Atkins confirmed softly. "I'd advise you to commit those names and locations to your memory palace, and then destroy the list, so it does not fall into the wrong hands."

"So you are a reader of John's blog." Sherlock said absently.

"I am." Ms. Atkins acknowledged. Carefully, she opened the briefcase to show him the contents. "As you can see, Ms. Morray also left you her personal laptop, containing all the information she has ever collected on Moriarty. She also left you some cell phones for your use. They were designed by one of our current clients, and are virtually untraceable, even by satellite. She also left some property, in various locations throughout the world. The one here is about to be sold, so the closest safehouse is in Nevada. You may go there, and decide your next move.

"Where was she buried?" Sherlock asked suddenly, looking up from the documents.

"Where no one will _ever_ disturb her." Ms. Atkins whispered, looking sad for the first time since the interview began. "I saw to the arrangements myself. Anyone who opens her coffin here will get quite a surprise! Ms. Morgan's interment place shall remain undisturbed from her brother and from any government agency. And I will take that secret to the grave with me if I must."

Sherlock read the papers quietly for a few moments. "Money, contacts, documentation...Danielle wants me to take on her mantle as the 'Raven.'"

Ms. Atkins nodded, her green eyes glistening. "It's your choice, of course. Before her death, I was appointed as the new business leader of our little organization, and I'll be seeing to its day-to-day operations. But Dani was insistent that you take up her title, for the reasons she explained to you in her letter."

Sherlock nodded. "And the child? Dani's child..." Sherlock paused, unable to say "_my_ child" just yet. It still seemed surreal to him.

_Why didn't Dani ever tell him before now?_

"She is in my conference room." The woman said. "Just down the hall."

Sherlock snorted. "You _do_ realize that I am now considered a fraud and a criminal. And yet you feel comfortable leaving a child with me." Beneath his stoic tone was an undercurrent of fear that was barely suppressed.

_What did he know about raising a child? _

"I knew Dani for a few years now. And over the years, I have always trusted her judgment." Ms. Atkins replied.

"She was more than your client." Sherlock observed.

Ms. Atkins inclined her head, deeply saddened. "She was my friend. And she saved my life. If I could, I would have died for her."

"But you can't find a more suitable caretaker for her daughter." Sherlock said, his voice cold with disapproval.

Suddenly, the attorney smiled. "Under the eyes of the law, you are the logical caretaker! It is up to you to make decisions regarding her welfare. Oh, and just so you know, she is much like you! She can 'see' things no one else can!"

Sherlock's face was impassive, yet Ms. Atkins could see he was troubled.

"I think you will find that Sheridan, that's her name, by the way, is remarkably mature for her age. You are also aware that she is something of a prodigy when it comes to computers, so she has skills that will be of use to you." Mrs. Atkins explained, as though she was trying to come up with a practical reason as to why Sherlock should take the child with him.

Sherlock nodded absently. "Danielle explained that in her letter. Why Moriarty is after her."

Ms. Atkins sighed. "And you _do_ understand, what you are doing?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "If I don't take her, you will see that she is placed with a nice, _normal_ family?"

Ms. Atkins nodded.

"And then, once Moriarty finds her, and we both know he will, he will probably kill them, and take her?"

Ms. Atkins paused. "It is very likely." She admitted. "Even if one of our own people were to take her, her life would be in constant jeopardy. It was all Dani could do to stay one step ahead of Moriarty, just to keep Sheri out of his reach!"

"And you think, with me, she has a chance." Sherlock muttered.

"I think you are her _only_ chance. And you know that as well, or you wouldn't be here." Ms. Atkins noted shrewedly.

Sherlock didn't say anything. He knew, even before he came here, what the mathematical probability was for a child that was constantly targeted by Moriarty. Only with him, someone able to deduce how Moriarty thought, did the little girl have a chance.

There never really was a choice in the matter.

Ms. Atkins glanced at her watch. "I must be in court in thirty minutes, so I will take my leave. If you require my help or the help of those who knew Danielle, then you know how to reach us. All of the contacts on that list have been informed and are under orders to follow your instructions. When you are ready, you may take Sheri. We have explained everything to her, so she understands. She is already ready to go." Ms. Atkins got up from her chair and walked to the office door to let him out.

Sherlock got up slowly (probably too slowly) and started to follow the attorney out of her office.

"One more thing, _Mr. Covington_." Ms. Atkins said softly.

"What?" Sherlock muttered.

Ms. Atkins pale green eyes met Sherlock's stormy blue ones. "You know that as long as 'Mr. Brooks' is still free, Sheridan can never be safe."

The air was thick with tension as Ms. Atkins' words hung in the air like smoke from a fire that was just extinguished.

Sherlock nodded. "I know."

Ms. Atkins smiled sadly. "Good luck, Mr. Covington. If you need anything, just contact me, and I'll make sure to arrange it."

* * *

The next few minutes seemed to last years for Sherlock as he left the attorney's office and walked down the narrow hallway towards the room where Danielle's daughter waited. His mind was running with various thoughts, ideas, and yes, even emotion as he tried to decide what to do next.

He was irritated, angry, confused, and apprehensive.

_What the hell did he know about children? He couldn't take a child with him! And he never wanted a child anyway! What the bloody hell was Danielle thinking? _

_What was he going to do now…_

The door to the conference room suddenly opened, and Sherlock got his first glimpse of Sheridan Joan Morray, his daughter.

And now, _his_ responsibility!

In many ways, it was like looking in a mirror.

_Bloody hell, the child was an exact replica of him! Dark, curly hair, pale complexion, high set cheek bones. Even the damned eyes were the same! _

The girl was young (seven, if he recalled correctly). She was surprisingly slender, without the usual baby fat that tended to stick to most children her age. Her face was extremely pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes, which suggested that she had trouble sleeping. Underneath her calm exterior was the faint signs of what could only be described as grief. Not surprising, as her mother had just died, leaving her alone. There was also unease. That was to be expected too, as she was about to be placed into the care of a stranger she didn't know.

While he had no idea what the girl was thinking, Sherlock felt the stirrings of his own childhood within the depths of his memory palace and struggled to keep them contained.

For a few moments, neither one of them moved.

Then the girl spoke. "You are Mom's friend. The one she wrote to." Her voice was clear, without betraying any of the emotions she no doubt was feeling.

_So she inherited her mother's remarkable ability to adapt to difficult situations. That was good to know. If she had been a crying, sniveling mess, he might lose his ability to think coherently._

Sherlock stared back at her for a moment before nodding.

"We have to go now?" Sheridan asked.

"Yes." Sherlock replied. "We have to go now."

Sheridan nodded, already accepting the move, as she had done so many times before. "I am ready." Picking up her "emergency bag," which she had brought with her in anticipation for this move, she looked up expectantly at Sherlock. "So, where are we going?"

* * *

Ms. Atkins was correct in her assessment. Sheridan proved to be _very_ mature, all things considering. She was eager to help Sherlock take down Moriarty and the "Bad Men," as she called them. Her computer hacking skills proved invaluable to Sherlock, whether it was getting information on Moriarty's associates, transferring money to accounts so that Sheridan and Sherlock could move from place to place, or to create false identities for themselves.

Surprisingly as well, Sheridan seemed to adjust to Sherlock's solitary nature without too much difficulty. Instead of being clingy, whiny, or loud (as all children were, from Sherlock's experience), Sheridan seemed to know that Sherlock did not like overt acts of affection.

For his part, Sherlock found the child to be a constant source of interest, even though he was loath to admit it. She shared his insatiable curiosity, as well as her mother's optimistic outlook and ability to accept difficult situations as they came.

This helped them co-exist peacefully during those first few months, even though they still felt awkward around each other.

There was still some tense times, especially at first, when Sherlock agonized over his decision to become a father to the girl, while Sheridan went through a grieveing period for her mother. Yet somehow they found solace in each other's presence. Their loneliness and grief for absent family and friends somehow forged a close father-daughter bond, which probably would not have been possible under other circumstances.

But it took Sherlock almost losing her before he realized how attached he had truly become.

It was after they arrived in Tibet last December, and Sheri got very sick. Pneumonia, of all things. The area they were in was remote, and there was no hospital nearby. So Sherlock had traveled across mountainous terrain to get to the nearest village to get medical supplies while the kindly monks looked after his daughter.

Even so, Sheridan had almost died…

_Stop it!_ Sherlock berated himself_. I should be planning my next move, not wallow in pointless memories! I cannot be bogged down by emotion! I need to delete these memories, so I can focus on the task at hand._

But no matter how hard he tried, Sherlock could not bring himself to forget.

* * *

**Author's Note**: He's baaaaaack! What, did you guys really think I would bring back Moriarty, but not Sherlock?

Now, I know most of you thought that Danielle Morray and Sherlock would be getting off the plane together.

I'm really, really sorry for everyone who feels cheated with this. I tried to do a little foreshadowing in the Prologue, the only time we have actually seen Dani. Notice how she talks about death and dying? Well, it was not because she was going to go after Moriarty! It was because she already was dying at that point, from cancer. And she knew it.

I tried to hint at Sheridan's existance too, in the Prologue. When Chelsea asked Dani if she was going to tell "her," at which point Dani actually cried and said that she hadn't told "her" yet, nor had she had a chance to tell "her" that she was planning to go after Moriarty.

Yeah. The "her" they were discussing was Sheridan! Poor Dani! Can you imagine what she must have felt at the time, knowing that she was dying and had not even told her daughter yet? And, even worse, thinking that Sheridan's father, Sherlock, was dead?

Yeah, uh, just what is happened? I'll ask Sherlock in a moment! Maybe he can explain!

P.S. Just saw the British Opening Ceremonies for the Olympics! Great job to London and all of Great Britain on its hard work and great job.

My OC Chase Douglas thinks the Mary Poppins dancers were a tribute to the DMP, and I don't have the heart to tell him otherwise!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock! Thank goodness, right? I'm more twisted than the current writers!

**Sherlock Holmes**-You have suffered from sleep deprivation for so long, you have now become delusional.

**Peaceful Defender**-Says the detective known to go almost a full week without sleep! By the way, what took you so long, anyway? Moriarty got here before you did! I had to deal with him! _Alone!_

**Sherlock Holmes**-Does he know I'm alive?

**Peaceful Defender** (scoffs)-Do you think _I_ would tell him? So, can you explain what's going on here?

**Sherlock Holmes**-It's so obvious, isn't it?

**Peaceful Defender**-If it was, I wouldn't be asking! So what's going on?

**Sherlock Holmes** (rolling his eyes)-I prefer to keep my enemies confused!

**Peaceful Defender** (mouth hanging open)-In case it escaped your infalliable mind, we are all a little confused here! I mean, most of us thought it would be Danielle Morray being the _Raven_, you being her guest, and both of you getting off the plane together! But now it seems that _you_ are the _Raven_, and you bring an eight-year old girl with you! So what is going on?

**Sherlock Holmes** (sighs)-Danielle used to be the _Raven_. After my alleged demise, she finally decided to go after Moriarty, but learned she was dying from cancer. So she was searching for someone to take up the mantle of the _Raven_, in order to confuse Moriarty to the point of distraction.

**Peaceful Defender**-Oh! And then she found out you were alive! So she sent you a note, explaining her plan, and asked you to carry it out for her!

**Sherlock Holmes**-I told you it was obvious!

**Peaceful Defender**-So, for the last year, you were the one going after Moriarty's web! As the _Raven! _Wow, you have everyone fooled! So far, everyone is thinking Dani is behind everything!

**Sherlock Holmes** (scowls)-She is, in a way. It was her plan. She was just unable to carry it out. But she left behind alot of data. Dani even left me a list of her favorite sayings, so I would leave them behind and make Moriarty believe she was sending them, not me! Hopefully, that will keep John and the others safe. Because if Moriarty learns that I'm still alive...

**Peaceful Defender**-Don't worry! I won't tell him! So, are you _Chimera?_

**Sherlock Holmes** (rolls eyes)-_Chimera_ existed long before I went on the run! And why would I hack into the Pentagon? Why should I care about that?

**Peaceful Defender**-But if it's not you, and it's not Dani...Oh crap! Are you saying _Sheridan_ is the _Chimera_? An eight year old!

**Sherlock Holmes** (shrugs)-It's not my fault that she learned those skills from her mother! Besides, I made sure she put those skills to good use!

**Peaceful Defender** (smirking)-By having her hack into your brother's computer and put that birthday message on it? How else are you going to corrupt the child? What's next? Will we see her doing a fake crime scene with stuffed animals?

**Sherlock Holmes**-With you writing the story, anything is possible. However, you _do_ realize there are many stories out there from writers about me having and/or raising a child?

**Peaceful Defender**-True, but how many of them feature a child who is also Moriarty's biological _niece?_ Wait, does that mean you and Moriarty are family now? Will you be spending Christmas holidays with each other?

**Sherlock Holmes **(silently glares at Peaceful Defender)

**Peaceful Defender**-Look on the bright side! My readers will probably kill me for this! I can only hope they don't send flames! Maybe one kind review, for creativity?

**Sherlock Holmes**-You're attempts at begging are truly pathetic! By the way, have you given any thought on how we are going to explain this to _Mycroft?_ Or _Mummy?_

**Peaceful Defender**-?


	13. Chapter 12

**Wow! Surprisingly, I got a review (courtesy of MoonlitIvy, whom I extend my thanks) which means I can post the next chapter. Also, a mob hasn't come to rake me over the hot coals yet. Or maybe you guys are just waiting...**

**Just so you guys know, this is my first Fan Fiction flick. Sheridan, the daughter of Dani and Sherlock, should not be looked on as merely a plot device intended for shock value. She is a major character, with a huge part to play in this story. Further, I wanted to explore the possibility of a child that had traits from both Moriarty's family (through his sister, Dani) and the Holmes family (via Sherlock). How much will Sheridan be like Sherlock, and how much will she be like Dani (and by extension, Moriarty)? **

**Thus, in order to explore the answers to these questions, as well as allow Sheridan to become a major piece in this chess game between Sherlock and Moriarty, I needed to be able to have her interact with others, as well as show events from her point of view. Otherwise, her actions later in the story will make no sense. Plus, through her, I can reveal more about Dani and Moriarty.**

**Thus, despite losing the air of mystery, as well as killing off an OC before we even really had a chance to know her, I had to reveal the rudements of Sherlock's plan and Sheridan's existance, as they take center stage in the next few chapters. **

**So please, please, please don't give up on this story just yet! There is still alot we don't know! What is Sherlock's plan? How will Mycroft, John, and company react when they learn that Sherlock is alive? How do they react when they learn about Sheridan? **

**And how will Moriarty react when he finds out the truth? How much farther can he unrival?**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Inner Reflections **

"Nothing you do for a child is ever wasted." Garrison Keillor, _Leaving Home_

* * *

Bright, morning sun fell aslant through the blinds when Sheridan stirred from her sleep. Accustomed as she was to life on the run, first with her mother and now with her father, it did not distress her at all to wake up in a strange bed. She threw off the covers and set up in bed for a second to stretch.

She glanced back at her father, slouched in a seat with his eyes closed and his breathing even. _He must have been up all night planning and finally fell asleep sometime in the night_. Sheridan smiled to herself as she took one of the discarded blankets and carefully draped it over her father, who continued to sleep on.

Sheridan knew that her father did not like to sleep during a case, and lately she was starting to worry for him, as he would sometimes go days without rest. Even when he did sleep, it never seemed to be for long periods of time. A couple of hours, at most.

So whenever she saw that Dad was resting, she was always careful not to wake him.

Realizing she had time to herself, she went to the closet and found a fresh set of clothes to change into. She took those and her toothbrush to the hotel bathroom, then locked the door. Within twenty minutes she had showered, changed, brushed her teeth, and dried her hair.

Being able to get up and ready at a moment's notice was another trick she had learned from being on the road so much.

She took a moment to glance at herself in the mirror, suddenly wondering how much she had changed in the last year after Mom died.

She was older, obviously. She was seven when Mom died. Now she was eight. She had grown taller too, shooting up almost three inches in height. But she was tiny to begin with, so that wasn't saying much.

_I wonder if I will get tall, like Dad._ Sheridan wondered. _I hope so! I don't like being short! But I look so much like Dad, so there's a chance I'll be tall, too._

It _was_ true, Sheridan reflected as she gazed in the mirror. She did resemble her father much more than she did her mother.

Mom, with her beautiful straight red hair, her rosy complexion, and her warm brown eyes, with the gold lines in them that looked like fireworks. As far as Sheridan was concerned, Mom was the most beautiful woman in the world. Not even the cancer that killed her could keep people from seeing just how beautiful she was. She remembered the nurses whispering about her.

_So sad. She's so young and pretty…_

Sheridan felt a strange emptiness every time she thought of her mother, and now was no exception. The world did not know it, but it lost so much the day Mom died.

And on that terrible day, over a year ago, Sheridan did lose her whole world.

Next to her, Sheridan felt so plain in comparison, like an ugly duckling next to a beautiful swan. She had dark hair that was curly and always stayed that way, no matter what she did to it. Her skin was so pale, even when she spent countless hours in the sun.

And her eyes were such an unusual color. Not blue, not grey, and not green, but a strange mixture of the three.

She had never seen anyone with the same color eyes that she had before she met Sherlock, or 'Dad,' as she started calling him, after what happened in Tibet last December.

So far, he hadn't objected.

She found they shared many of the same traits and interests as well. Before meeting her father, Sheridan felt awash in a sea of information. No matter what, whenever she met a person, facts about them just came naturally to her mind. _Was the person married? Did he have kids? Or pets? What did he eat for dinner that day? What does he do for a living?_

Being in a huge crowd was the hardest part. All that information assaulting her mind from multiple sides was like thousands of voices screaming at once. She sometimes thought she would go mad. And not like the "mad" like "Alice in Wonderland," but _really insane_, like those people who drooled on themselves in those hospital buildings, raving about strange things.

When she was three and it happened for the first time, Mom seemed to know what was going on. First, she took her out of the area, far away from everyone. Then, Mom talked to her calmly put a pair of sunglasses on her. "Just breathe, Sheri! It's ok, sweetheart!"

Mom's voice helped her then, as did the sunglasses.

Later, Mom told Sheridan that her father suffered from the same "headaches" when he was younger, so it was nothing for her to worry about. It was what made her "_freaky,_" Mom had said. And that was a good thing, because Mom loved freaky things more than anything else in the world.

It was also the first time Mom ever spoke about Dad to Sheridan.

Since that day, even with Mom gone, Sheridan always kept a pair of sunglasses handy. They didn't help _that_ much, but they allowed her to close her eyes behind the shades so that she wouldn't be bombarded by her senses so much. And if she had her sunglasses on, no one would see that she was closing her eyes.

Those monks that they stayed with at Tibet taught her and Dad that thing called _meditation_. It involved sitting down and blocking out all thoughts. That gave her some relief too, even though she still had not quite mastered it. Dad was a little better at it, but not much. As Mom had told her, they both had restless natures.

Like her mother, Sheridan found she had a natural talent for computers. She had already hacked into several _supposedly_ secured sites by the time she was six, including that memorable time she hacked into the Pentagon's mainframe_. _

_Mom was not particularly happy about that one!_ Sheridan smirked as she looked at her reflection. But the Pentagon deserved to know that one of their own was a traitor, right? It wasn't her fault that U.S. Intelligence was so dumb! They needed to know!

And yes, maybe taking a few classified documents and fixing their grammatical errors was a little childish, but what if the President was reading them and had to make a quick decision, but was distracted because of all the comma errors and misspelled words?

Mom didn't seem to find that the explanation justified Sheridan's little breach into the Pentagon mainframe, so she was grounded from using computers for a month.

It was probably the _longest_ month of Sheridan's life! She was so..._bored! _

Dad, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind that Sheridan liked to explore the limits of her computer hacking abilities. After Dad came and got her, her computer hacking days continued, much to her delight. Under Dad's direction, she had hacked into many security systems throughout the world. Once, she even hacked into Uncle Mycroft's private computer, under Dad's direction, to wish him a happy birthday!

Already, in her short career as a computer hacker, she had gained a name and reputation of sorts for herself.

_Chimera._ Her code name. She picked it out herself, and she was proud of it!

But just being allowed to continue her online activities wasn't the only perk about living with Dad. There were other things too.

Dad was not as affectionate as Mom was. Not at all! He didn't like hugs, or that kind of thing! And he wasn't good with expressing himself. He also lacked the social graces that Mom had.

But he was somehow intuned to what Sheridan wanted or needed at any given time. And he showed his affection in other ways, such as taking an active interest in the subjects she was learning and helping her develop and control her ability to "see" things better.

And there were other things too. If times were _really_ bad, and there was little food, he made her eat it. Or he would let her sleep and keep watch at night, particularly if there were Bad Men in the area. So, in his own way, Dad became her world, just as Mom had done before him.

When Mom finally died, ravaged by the cancer that claimed her, Sheridan was heartbroken. For years, it had been only her and Mom. There _was_ no one else_._ It was also one of the few times in her life that she cried.

She was certain that she would end up in foster care, unless someone came to claim her.

Someone like Moriarty.

Sheridan shuddered visibly. All her life, she was chased by the BAD MAN, her mother's older brother. _James Moriarty._

Personally, Sheridan was certain that the real James Moriarty was switched at birth with a homicidal demon from Hell.

_How else can such a monster be related to someone as kind and loving as Mom?_

So when Mom died, Sheridan resigned herself to go into foster care. Better to live with _boring people_ than with that monster!

_But Dad came and got me._

"Sheridan?" A hoarse croak sounded behind the door.

_Dad's awake._

"One moment, Dad!" Sheridan called back as she gave her black locks a final comb and did her best to put on a brave face and hide her anxiety.

Moriarty might be close by, but he would _never_ get past Dad! Already, he took out almost all of Moriarty's men. And it felt good to be on the offensive, to hurt Moriarty before he hurt them!

_And they would get him._

She _owed_ Mom that much.

* * *

"So what are we going to do today?" Sheridan asked as she ate her cereal. "Are we finally going to go and meet Uncle Mycroft and Uncle John?"

Sherlock frowned as he took a bite of his toast. Normally, he wouldn't _dream_ of doing something as mundane as eating breakfast (even if it was only two slices of toast), but his daughter's stubborn nature of refusing to eat unless he ate meant that he had to compromise on some of the rules he usually kept for himself. "Not yet, Sheri. It's not safe. But soon."

Sheridan nodded thoughtfully before digging her spoon back into her cereal, but she couldn't hide the disappointment on her face. "You mean when Moriarty is behind bars."

Sherlock nodded absently as he glanced through the paper. He was reading the main article about the "Satanic Slasher."

_As usual, those incompetents from the Yard did not have the first clue what was going on!_

And that could be dangerous.

Especially for John, if Moriarty ever learned Sherlock was still alive.

"I don't think he will stop, Dad." Sheridan spoke up as she finished her cereal.

Sherlock looked at her curiously. "Moriarty?"

Sheridan nodded seriously. "I think he will break out! Or come after us while he's in prison. I don't think _anything_ can stop him!"

Sherlock looked at his daughter wonderingly. Even though she was eight, she already showed incredible wisdom for her age, a feat that made it somewhat easier for Sherlock to adjust to his forced role as father and caregiver.

Sherlock never liked children in general. The ones he often came into contact with were loud, messy, and clingy.

But Sheridan was none of those things. She was just… _Sheridan. _A class unto herself, with her own set of rules.

And she was smart as well. Sherlock was relieved to learn that, because it would have been so _irritating_ to have a dull child!

But sometimes, especially in situations like this, Sherlock wished his daughter was not so intuitive. Like her, Sherlock had already deduced that Moriarty would never stop chasing them as long as he was alive.

There was really only one way to stop him.

_But Sheridan didn't have to know that._

Sherlock took a last bite of his toast and set it down on the plate. "Sheridan, now that we are in London, there is something we need to discuss. Are you listening carefully?"

"Yes, Dad." Sheridan said, pushing her bowl away and sitting up straight. Her piercing eyes, exactly like Sherlock's, stared up at him. "What is it?"

Sherlock set the newspaper down. "Sheri, you remember how we talked about what happened to me? That I had to pretend to be dead to protect John?"

Sheridan nodded, serious. "Uh-huh! I remember."

"And you remember why I had to do it?" Sherlock prompted.

Sheridan frowned in annoyance. "I may be eight, but I _do_ have a memory, Dad! Moriarty had everyone hating you, saying that the thing that gives us headaches was make-believe. That you were a fraud! And you aren't, but everyone believed you were! And Moriarty made you jump of that roof. To save John from being shot. But you tricked Moriarty by playing make-believe that you were dead. So you could go after Moriarty's Bad Men first!"

"That's right!" Sherlock nodded. "And now almost all the Bad Men are gone. But that's not the point."

"Are you afraid Moriarty will find out you are alive before the rest of the Bad Men are gone?" Sheridan asked, eyes widening.

"Yes, Sheri. I am." Sherlock admitted quietly. As usual, Sheridan had a knack for figuring out the crux of the problem. "And that is why we need to discuss something. Do you remember when we were in Tokyo and Tibet? And I had to leave you behind on your own for awhile?"

Sheridan nodded. "I remember."

"Well, I may have to do that again. But because Moriarty is here, the situation is going to be much more dangerous."

Sheridan paled. "Are you going to send me away? Please, don't Dad! I'll stay out of your way! _I promise!_ But don't make me go!"

Sherlock sighed. "As much as I would like for you to be somewhere safe, I can't risk it. There simply is nowhere to go yet. Not without Moriarty knowing."

Sheridan huffed and crossed her arms in front of her. "_I'm staying!_ I wouldn't even go with _Irene_ if you asked me to, and I _like_ her!"

Sherlock smirked as he recalled the first time he ran into Irene after his "death." It was in October of last year, a few weeks after he retrieved Sheridan.

Unbidden, a memory escaped from the confines of his memory palace.

* * *

_Irene was hiding in Las Vegas at the time. She was sitting on a park bench when Sherlock spied her while taking Sheridan out for a walk. He saw the woman sitting so still, her eyes trained on the sunset as it's dying lights cast colored rays on her beautiful face. By the far-away look in her eyes, Sherlock deduced that she was currently remembering other, more exciting times in her life._

_"Dad?" Sheridan had asked. "Why are you looking at that woman for? Do you know her?"_

_Sherlock smirked. "I do know her. She is hiding from the Bad Men too."_

_Sheridan glanced back at the woman and looked at her more closely. "Are you sure? I don't recognize her, and I know all of the people Mom has helped before!"_

_"Your mother isn't the only one capable of helping someone hide from Moriarty." Sherlock explained crpytically. "Sheri, I want you to go over to her and introduce yourself. Tell her that she knows your father, and that he wants to say hello."_

_"Why don't you do it?" Sheridan asked curiously._

_"Trust me! This will be more entertaining." Sherlock told her. "Could you do this for me?"_

_Sheridan nodded. She inherited her mother's ability to get along well with people, and was able to charm strangers with natural ease that Sherlock sometimes found himself envying. Without another word, Sheridan walked straight over to where Irene was sitting._

_As they were quite some distance away, Sherlock did not have the benefit of hearing what they were saying to each other. Nevertheless, he could clearly see Irene's face when she was startled out of her daydreams, then her smile as Sheridan said something to her. Probably a meaningless compliment of some sort. _

_Then Sheridan turned and pointed to Sherlock, who was waiting on the pavement. He smiled and waved a hand in greeting._

_The look on Irene's face when she found out Sherlock was alive was memorable enough. Then, as realization hit Irene that Sherlock had a child, her expression was beyond priceless! _

_He would never delete that from his hard drive!_

* * *

"So we agree, then. You stay with me, but you must do everything I tell you to do without question!" Sherlock replied, putting the encounter with Irene out of his mind for the time being.

"Of course, Dad! Don't I always?" Sheridan smiled innocently.

Sherlock frowned. "I'm serious, Sheri! But that's not what I wanted to say." Sherlock paused before continuing. "If there is ever a point that things become too dangerous, and Moriarty's men are around, I am going to take you to Uncle Mycroft. Since the CCTV system is still compromised, it is best if I send you to the Diogenes Club that I have spoken to you about."

Sheridan considered this briefly. "So you may send me to Uncle Mycroft at some point?"

Sherlock nodded. "If a time comes when we absolutely have to gain control of the CCTV system, I may not have a choice. Considering the imbeciles my brother usually hires on these matters, it may become necessary for you to reveal yourself and help him gain control of the system back from Moriarty. I'm not saying that is the plan! Not yet, in any case! I'm merely planning for all possible outcomes."

Sheridan thought for a moment before nodding her assent.

Sherlock smiled, pleased that Sheridan accepted the possibility without a fuss. "Now, Mycroft will know instantly that you are my daughter. Because he is like us." Sherlock explained. "He sees things like we do."

"So he will know right away he is my uncle!" Sheridan reflected.

"Yes. He's very perceptive, but not as intelligent as I am." Sherlock noted stoically.

"No one is as smart as you are, Dad!" Sheridan affirmed.

Sherlock continued as though Sheridan had not said anything, although he was secretly pleased with Sheridan's pronouncement. "But there is something very important I need you to remember! If I have to send you to Mycroft, then you must never tell _anyone_ that I am still alive! It's important!" Sherlock said seriously.

"But _why_, Dad?" Sheridan seemed puzzled. "Don't you _want _Uncle John and Uncle Mycroft to know?"

Sherlock frowned. "Not yet. It's difficult to explain, Sheri."

"Are you afraid that they will be angry at you, Dad?"

Sherlock smirked despite himself. For all of her looks and intelligence, Sheridan still retained her mother's ability to see the emotional side of people. "I'm sure they both will be _very_ angry at me, Sheri! _Especially_ John. He won't like the fact that I tricked him into think I was dead. I imagine he will probably punch me in the jaw once he finds out!"

"But everyone knows the truth now! Everyone knows you can see things!" Sheridan protested. "They _know_ you aren't a fraud, Dad! And they know Moriarty made you jump!"

"That's not the point, Sheridan!" Sherlock replied. "John will be upset because I didn't tell him the truth. Many people will be upset with me. They may think that I didn't trust them."

"I don't understand!" Sheridan muttered. "If they think that, they are obviously not being _logical!_"

Sherlock sighed. _Time to change tactics._

"Sheri, I will let everyone know I'm alive, but _only_ if the time is right! If Moriarty learned I was still alive before I can stop him, he may go after John again and try to hurt him. And that will not make me happy."

"And Moriarty wouldn't want to see you unhappy, right, Dad?" Sheridan asked with unalloyed admiration shinning in her eyes.

Sheridan made it no secret that she was proud of her father. As far as she was concerned, he was the smartest man alive. And the bravest, too. He was taking Moriarty down so that one day she could have what other kids had.

_A home she could stay in for years and years. Maybe even the chance to go to school someday..._

"Precisely! And that is why if anyone asks, you must _never _reveal I am alive! I'll do that myself, when the time is right. Will you promise?" Sherlock asked seriously.

Sheridan regarded her father seriously. "I promise, Dad. But what do I do when Uncle Mycroft realizes that I'm your daughter? What do I say?" Sheridan asked curiously.

"Sherlock smiled. "I want you to tell them that your mom told you to find Uncle Mycroft and that you got here on your own. Your computer talents are such that your explanation will certainly be plausible."

Sheridan nodded. "So you want me to lie." There was no censer in her tone. Sheridan already learned from Mom about the difference between lies that you were not supposed to tell versus lies that Sheridan had to say to stay safe.

It was the difference between "_a bit not good_" and "_very bad_."

"Yes, Sheridan. It's for your own safety. And John's safety as well."

"Well, after we catch Moriarty, and we tell the truth, may I tell them about Abby?" Sheridan asked curiously, glancing over at the nightstand, where Abby, Sheridan's companion, was sitting on the nightstand, sightless eyes gazing back.

Sherlock suddenly chuckled. "It's fine if you show them Abby, Sheri! In fact, if you ever run into Lestrade, Anderson, or Donovan, you have my full permission to show them Abby! If you remember to, you can even tape their reactions for me to see if I'm not there!"

"Lestrade was the Yarder who Moriarty also threatened, right?" Sheri asked curiously.

"Yes, Sheri. You are correct." Sherlock grinned mischievously.

_If he was lucky, he would be there to see the Yarders when they met Abby, Sheridan's little "friend."_

But considering what he had to do, the chances of that were too slim to be mathematically feasible.

"You know, Dad?" Sheridan said pensively, disrupting Sherlock's thoughts. "Those other Yarders, Donovan and Anderson? The ones you told me about? I bet they aren't as bad anymore! And I'm sure that they want to say that they are sorry to you."

Sherlock frowned. Although he knew Lestrade would apologize, he rather doubted the idiotic duo Donovan and Anderson ever would. "I don't wish for apologies from the likes of Scotland Yard."

"I know you don't care what other people think, Dad. But I still think that they may not be all that bad, if you give them another chance." Sheridan persisted.

Sherlock remained silent, refusing to argue with his daughter's well-meant but incredibly naive view of the world and how it worked.

_She didn't need to know how cruel the world could be yet._

* * *

The rest of the day went by pleasantly enough. Sheridan spent the morning doing her lessons, something she had done almost every day since she was four. Partly because she didn't want to be dull, and partly because she wanted to be able to go to school someday, and she didn't want to be behind.

Because Moriarty continued to chase Danielle around the States, she could not afford to send Sheridan to school, for fear that one of his men would snatch her, as they almost succeeded in doing when Sheridan was four. So Danielle had taught her on her own before she died, and Sherlock, despite his misgivings about the educational system in general, faithfully prompted Sheridan to continue her studies.

Currently, Sheridan was learning Math, English Grammar, Science, World History, French, Spanish, and German.

Sherlock, for his part, spent the morning going through the newspapers, learning everything he could about what was happening with this new case, and strategizing the best course of action.

Today was a day of planning, nothing more. The trip over to England was physically draining on both of them, and they needed time to recover.

Everything had to go perfectly. He could not afford to make a mistake now.

_There was too much at stake._

Usually, Sherlock would not be this cautious. And he _hated_ it. But he understood the necessity of it, and adapted his methods accordingly.

Being a father over the past year taught him many valuable lessons in patience.

Even as he reviewed the case, his mind drifted, and he wondered anew why John bothered to share a flat with someone like him for so long.

He also considered how John would react when he learned that Sherlock had a daughter. What would the ex-army doctor make of all of this?

Sherlock didn't need to search the web to know that situations like _faking your death and living on the run while simultaneously taking out your enemies and protecting your friends and daughter_ was not exactly normal. So he was admittedly at a loss on what to do. As children apparently didn't come with an instructional guide, most of it he had to learn through trial and error.

One of the hardest things Sherlock had to contend with was Sheridan's continuing education. Exactly _what _do you teach an eight year old girl?

When he had first run into Irene in Nevada, she was kind enough to get Sheridan some age-appropriate textbooks, but it was immediately apparent that she was already too advanced for them.

Her reading abilities were extraordinary for a child her age. She loved to read all kinds of books, including the Harry Potter series, The Lord of the Rings books, and also the Chronicles of Narnia books.

And, of course, she loved Treasure Island.

Sheridan's math and science skills, on the other hand, were a bit neglected when Sherlock first took up the task of teaching his daughter. Sherlock suspected it had to do with Danielle's confusion on how to teach her daughter how to master those subjects and not with Sheridan's inability to grasp the concepts.

He was proven right over time, as Sheridan was currently learning the basics of algebra and was focusing on how to spot and recognize parts of a cell under a microscope.

Sherlock despaired about not having a real microscope for this task, having to rely on the internet instead.

His regrets were lost to Sheridan, who seemed to thoroughly enjoy learning the subjects. As she had cheerfully pointed out, they could get a real microscope someday, or maybe get to use his old one, provided no one threw it away.

Until then, she was determined to learn what to look for when she eventually got that chance.

Besides the basic subjects, there were the daily lessons on the art of "deduction." Almost every day, unless danger from Moriarty or the weather prevented it, Sherlock would take Sheridan outside, because he recalled on Google that children were supposed to have fresh air and exercise.

As far as Sherlock was concerned, it didn't matter where they went. They would go down a street, to a shop, a park, or restaurant. The location wasn't important. What was important was nurturing Sheridan's growing skills at observation and deduction.

And she was learning rather quickly.

Lately, Sheridan had started to teach herself how to separate her ability to read emotions from her ability to deduce facts. Through the process of trial and error, Sheridan discovered that when she separated herself from her emotions and her ability to read the emotions of others, then her deductive powers were easier to focus on. She was able to deduce more facts about a person.

Whenever Sheridan attempted to use both abilities at the same time, she found she had limited success.

Sherlock was troubled by this development, even though he had the sense not to let Sheridan know.

He knew now that Mycroft was correct, that emotions were indeed a liability. That was why it was a good thing Sherlock was a high-functioning sociopath. He wouldn't be able to be as successful on his cases if he was impeded by such trivial things as _emotions_ and _love_. His father had been cold toward Sherlock, often berating him for not being more like Mycroft.

So Sherlock deliberately locked away his feelings into the deepest room of his memory palace, so that he could function.

But that didn't mean he wanted his daughter to grow up to be like him.

It was already bad enough that he was thrust into the role of fatherhood on such short notice. He didn't have the first clue on how to be a father. His own father was abusive and emotionally withdrawn.

So Sherlock knew that he didn't want to emulate _his_ father.

Nor did he want Sheridan to become a sociopath like him.

For one thing, she had already been raised to embrace her emotions by her mother. Granted, Sherlock could teach Sheridan to not rely on sentiment, but he was reluctant to do it.

_She wasn't strong enough for it._

After much contemplation, Sherlock decided that the best course of action would be to put himself in John's shoes and make decisions that John himself would make. He hoped that by doing so, Sheri would have a semi-normal upbringing.

And now here she was, slowly becoming more and more like Sherlock.

It was a terrifying thought.

And the worst of it was that Sheridan made no secret that she loved Sherlock, for all his coolness and odd mannerisms.

The way she _listened_ to him, accepted what he said without qualms, the way she wanted to know more about what he did, how he solved crimes and such.

It was _very_ uncomfortable for Sherlock, who was not used to children. Much less a child who adored him without reservation.

Sherlock wished many times over the last year that he could have called John to ask for advice. John had an instinct about these things, even though he wasn't a father himself. _John_ would know what to do! _He_ would be able to answer Sherlock's questions.

John, of all people, would make sure that Sheridan didn't become another freak, just like Sherlock.

But Sherlock was realistic. That was why he swore off emotions. They were a chemical reaction for the losing side. They got in his way and clouded his judgment.

That was why he always resisted the urge to call John. He just couldn't risk it. Not if he wanted John to stay alive.

_And knowing how John would react if he learned Sherlock lied to him…_

But recriminations about Sherlock's actions would have to come later. Right now, Sherlock had to focus on the task at hand.

* * *

Sherlock's thoughts now drifted back to the current problem; how to deal with Moriarty. Earlier, just before they left to board the plane for London, Sherlock gave his daughter an untraceable cell phone and had her call John to give him the clue about how Moriarty had accessed the CCTV system.

Later today, Sherlock was going to check with his source to find out if Mycroft now knew who the traitor was within the Government.

Now that Mycroft was being lead in the right direction, he would work on getting back control of his precious little surveillance system, leaving Sherlock free to focus on how to take out Moriarty's last remaining lieutenant, Colonel Sebastian Moran, and the other two snipers. Then, that left Moriarty himself.

And Sherlock would personally enjoy putting Moriarty through his own little version of "Reichenbach."

_He couldn't burn Moriarty's heart out of his chest, but he could do the next best thing._

One thing was absolutely essential. Moriarty could _not_ be allowed to escape, because Sheri's life and John's life would _always_ be at risk. And they deserved better than that!

So Sherlock was going to do whatever it took to ensure that Moriarty would never bother either of them again.

Sherlock's own life was of secondary importance.

* * *

"It is good to see you in London again, Mr. McGee."

Sherlock nodded slightly as he continued to walk around the path going through Hyde Park. As always, he took great care in disguising his appearance, choosing to wear a light blonde wig, a realistic beard of the same color, jeans, and a comfortable coat. He also wore a black armband on his sleeve, so that his contact in London would be able to approach him. To those around him, Sherlock was simply another resident enjoying the exercise and touch of nature that Hyde Park had to offer.

_Now that he was back in London, he couldn't afford to be recognized by anyone._

"You are my contact." Sherlock said calmly, finally meeting his source face-to-face.

The woman smiled. "_Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder, weak and weary, upon many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore._"

Sherlock nodded affirmation of the password, which was the opening line from the poem "The Raven."

_Danielle's idea, of course._

"Why Ms. Morray insisted on such redundant poetry is incomprehensible to me!" Sherlock whined.

The woman smirked and silently handed him a newspaper. Hidden in the paper was a folder. She lowered her voice as they began walking together. "I got the information you requested. I have kept notes of everything that has happened after my uncle contacted me. The young man who is assisting your brother is an American named Chase Douglas. He is a hacker who is hired by various companies to test their security systems."

"Did they finally discover the traitor in Mycroft's ranks?" Sherlock asked as he continued to walk down the pavement that wound through the park, glancing aimlessly at the bare, skeleton-like trees and the dark clouds hanging ominously above.

"They did. And he has been neutralized. But Mycroft still needs Moriarty's password in order to break into _his_ system and take control of the CCTV system." The woman affirmed.

"How about the Satanic Slasher?" Sherlock asked.

The contact snorted humorlessly. "Scotland Yard is no closer to finding them than they were the day this whole thing started!" The woman said with contempt. "There are rumors, of course, but Lestrade believes that the Slasher may be working for Moriarty!"

"For once, he is correct. A far cry from his usual incompetence." Sherlock noted quietly.

Sherlock and the young woman continued to walk on for a few minutes before Sherlock finally asked the question that had plagued his mind for almost eighteen months. "How is John?"

The woman sighed. She foresaw this question in advance. "He's doing alright, I guess. The woman who is with him, Mary Morstan, has moved into the same building, although she lives in 221 C, while John stays in 221 B. They are also engaged to be married, just like you predicted. Anyway, John still works part-time at Anthuster Family Clinic, but he goes to all the debriefing meetings. He hasn't missed one since this all started. He has also helped the Yard on a few cases."

"Has he moved on? Has he finally forgotten me?" Sherlock asked, his voice remarkably calm, despite the tightness he felt in his chest.

"No." The woman said bluntly. It was not in her nature to gloss over the truth. "He still goes to visit your grave every week, without fail. And he still relies on a cane to get around."

Sherlock sighed, feeling relief mixed with irritation. "You would think he would move on by now! Get on with his life!"

The young woman turned to glare at Sherlock. "You really think it is _that_ easy? That people just get over someone's death? Lestrade finds himself still calling your cell phone! Mycroft has probably lost about twenty pounds since all of this has started! Even _Donovan_ has become obsessed with tracking down Moriarty's men! So why should John be any different? Why should _anyone?"_

"_Mycroft_ has lost weight?" Sherlock asked, surprised.

The woman rolled her eyes. "If he keeps this up, he may be asking to borrow some of your clothes this time next year." The woman took in Sherlock's lanky frame and shook her head sadly. "Although from the looks of things, you may have surpassed him in amount of pounds lost over the last year or so."

Sherlock didn't bother replying. The idea of his brother, _Mycroft,_ actually mourning his passing was unexpected, for some reason.

_Did his brother really miss him that much?_

"Who do they think is behind the dismantlement of Moriarty's empire?" Sherlock finally asked.

"So far, all clues point to Danielle Morray, just as we planned." The woman related. "The others believe it, even though Mycroft still has his doubts."

"But no one suspects the truth." Sherlock stated flatly.

The woman smiled. "No one! The only ones who have even mentioned the possibility of you being alive are several people on that Fan Fiction site that Chase is a member of. And even then, most of it is just wishful thinking."

"Good! Then we need to keep it that way." Sherlock said. "At least until Moriarty has been dealt with."

The informant nodded. "So what do you need me to do?"

Sherlock smiled. "Moriarty has a new game. He plans to implement it in a few days. On November 4th. We must not let him carry it out. We need to keep distracting him, to make him nervous. Then he will make a mistake."

The woman smirked. "So we need to leave a message for him?"

Sherlock nodded, his lips pressed together into a thin line. "It is the only way."

"So what do I need to get for you?"

"I need several cans of spray paint. Red, preferably." Sherlock ordered. "I also made a list of these materials. Bring them here, tomorrow at this time, and I will pick them up." Quietly, Sherlock handed his ally a piece of paper. "Once you are done, destroy the note. Do not use any method of payment that can be traced to you. And buy the items from several different places, not all at the same store, even if the store has everything I need."

The woman nodded as the two continued to make their way around the park, the dead leaves crunching under their feet as the wind cut through their coats, chilling them. "You will have them by tomorrow." She promised.

"I will also need you to keep me informed about any new developments, either from the Yard or from my brother."

The informant nodded. "And the child? Ms. Morray's daughter? Is she safe?"

"She's safe." Sherlock affirmed stoically. He looked ahead to a small grouping of trees several meters away. "She's over there. The blonde child holding several leaves in her hand."

The woman scanned the area until her eyes came to rest on a little girl with shoulder length blonde hair, wearing a black leather coat and a rich purple scarf. She was currently crouched under a maple tree near the path they were walking, holding up two leaves for examination before tossing one away and putting the other one in a plastic bag.

The woman grinned. She was one of the few so far who was trusted with the secret of Sheridan's parentage. "What is she doing?"

"Collecting leaves for a science experiment. She is going to learn how to separate chlorophyll from other leaf pigments and identify what type of tree they came from."

The woman smirked before her expression became serious again. "Are you planning to use her to lure Moriarty out into the open?" The informant asked curiously.

Sherlock frowned. He had already considered that. "No! There is too much risk involved." Sherlock replied shortly. "Just do as I ask, and soon Moriarty will be at our mercy."

"I can do that." The woman said, her face softening. "I owe you that much for what you did for me."

"There is no need for gratitude. I did what I had to do." Sherlock grunted.

"I know." The woman replied. "And that is why I am helping you. Because it is something _I _need to do, too."

Glancing around quickly to assure herself that no one was watching, she turned and headed toward one of the park's benches. "I'll see you tomorrow." She promised before walking away, disappearing into a group of people headed in the opposite direction.

Sherlock watched her go before finally going to where Sheridan was waiting, anxious to show the specimens she had collected.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Not much going on in this chapter. I hope I did a realistic job with Sheridan. I mean, it's so hard to remember what it is like being an eight year old girl. So how do you protray an eight year old who is (in many ways) a genius? And who has been living with Sherlock for the last year?

I hope I protrayed Sherlock realistically enough too. He has certainly changed over the last eighteen months, even though he is still in denial and keeps telling himself he doesn't care, when it is so obvious that he does. And his approach to raising Sheridan was to ask himself WWJD (what would John do?) Pretty clever of him, if you ask me.

Now we know that Sherlock has a spy of his own in Mycroft's group. Who is she?

Why does Sherlock need red paint for?

And why was Sherlock so happy about the prospect of the Yarders meeting "Abby?" Why did he find the situation funny? And what is Abby? A doll? A pet? A severed head? (with Sherlock's child, who knows, right?)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own "Sherlock." However, I will gladly lead a revolution to make them air the episodes for Series 3 by the end of next year! WHO'S WITH ME?

**Sebastian Moran** (runs in with a high-powered rifle complete with night vision scope)-Where are you, Peaceful Defender!

**Peaceful Defender** (waves from her chair)-Over here! Where I have always been! Sitting in my chair and talking to characters who don't exist! Is that a gun in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?

**Sebastian Moran** (points gun at Peaceful Defender's head)-I'm going to kill you!

**Peaceful Defender** (sighs)-What have I done _this_ time? And stop pointing a gun at everyone you see! You know, most people actually get a hobby or something!

**Sebastian Moran**-I want you to tell me the names of the people who assaulted James in the cemetery!

**Peaceful Defender**-_What! Why!_

**Sebastian Moran**-One of them punched him so hard that he's cracking up!

**Peaceful Defender** (eyebrows raised)-And the stuff before? That's just him acting like he normally does?

**Sebastian Moran** (growling)-I know you won't tell me where Danielle Morray is, but you will tell me where they are!

**Peaceful Defender**-Uh, why?

**Sebastian Moran**-BECAUSE ONE OF THEM HIT HIM SO HARD THAT EVER SINCE THEN HE'S BEEN GOING AROUND WEARING LADIES' UNDERWEAR!

**Peaceful Defender** (giggling)-You have _got_ to be kidding me!

**Sebastian Moran** (holds up picture of Moriarty wearing a pink bra)-DOES IT LOOK LIKE I AM KIDDING?

**Peaceful Defender** (grinning)-Just out of curiousity, was he poising for that picture, or were you stalking him?

**Sebastian Moran**-Uh..._it's none of your business! _

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, I'm waiting anxiously for my next review. So while I'm waiting, I'll plan on what will happen to you in the next few chapters!

**Sebastian Moran **(frowns)-So you are being _petty_ because I pointed a gun at you!

**Peaceful Defender**-_No!_ I am doing it because you want to point that gun on several of my reviewers!

**Sebastian Moran**-_I wish I could kill you!_

**Peaceful Defender** (shrugs)-Get in line!


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen: Messages in Blood**

"People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." George Orwell

* * *

_October 31__st__, Eighteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

According to the Celts, who once inhabited the British Isle, Samhain was a time when the border between the world of the living and the world of the dead was at its weakest. To celebrate the event, the Celts made large bonfires all over the countryside so that the spirits of the departed may warm themselves.

Thousands of years later, times had changed. Now, All Hallows Eve, or Halloween, was a time dedicated to trick-or-treating, costumes, and parties. In London, the infamous "Ghost Walks" were in full swing, as pedestrians traveled to various "haunted" locals in hopes of seeing evidence of the supernatural.

Little did they know that there was a ghost in plain sight as he walked in their midst.

And he had a message to deliver to the Devil.

* * *

"What the _bloody hell_ is this?" Hopkins asked incredulously.

"Another tag, apparently." Donovan muttered. Her face slowly drained of color. "Just like the others."

It was nighttime, and the members of the Yard were patrolling the area in force, prepared for the usual crowds, which was significantly less than it had been in recent years, due in part to the public's fear of the Satanic Slasher.

However, _someone_ chose not to remain idle, as was evident by the glowing words that the Yarders have found on various abandoned buildings throughout the city.

Just like the message the Yarders were looking at now.

On the side of the building, written in big letters, was three strange symbols, while underneath was a grouping of words that seemed to be in another language.

And it was all done in glowing red paint that gave off a florescent-like light that could be observed from several meters away, even in the darkness.

"Those top three look like Greek letters, don't they?" Lestrade commented as he stared at the message, heedless to the flashing police lights and the group of passersby that were converging just past the roped-off area. "That first one is 'iota,' and the second one is 'omicron.' But I can't remember what the third one is."

"I do! It's 'upsilon.' In capital form, it looks like a strange 'Y' but in lower case form, it looks like the letter 'U'". Hopkins related helpfully.

"But what is all that gibberish down at the bottom?" Lestrade asked.

Underneath the three over-sized letters, someone had written out a message that seemed unintelligible. It read as follows:

'Jimmy Moriarty, má seasann tú ar imirt cluichí, Ansin, ní mór duit a bheith ann a chríochnú Them.'

"Maybe someone so drunk he can't spell?" Hopkins theorized, looking hopeful.

"I doubt it. It is exactly the same as the other six we found. But look at that word. 'Moriarty.'" Lestrade said. "It almost looks like a message to Moriarty, doesn't it?"

"I don't get it! Surely the Sherlockians didn't do this, did they?" Hopkins asked. "Moriarty isn't supposed to know that we know he is still alive!"

"Or maybe it's a message from Moriarty himself." Donovan muttered, looking stressed by the thought.

Lestrade shook his head. "I bet you anything that the message underneath is either another language, or a code of some sort!"

"I can tell you what it says!"

Lestrade turned around to the source of the voice. He came face to face with a familiar woman with coppery hair. "Ms. Hunter! What are you doing here? Surely acts of vandalism are not considered newsworthy for a professional newswoman such as you!"

Ms. Hunter frowned as her purple eyes flashed in annoyance. "I am filming haunted sights around London, Inspector. I was just finishing up my segment when one of my contacts called me and told me what was going on. Something about glowing blood!"

"Well, as you can see, it is spray paint, probably enhanced through some sort of phosphorescence's. Just a stupid prank by an individual or with too much time on their hands."

"Perhaps." Ms. Hunter allowed. The look on her face showed that she did not believe that for a second. "But what about the message below? It reads 'Jimmy Moriarty, má seasann tú ar imirt cluichí, Ansin, ní mór duit a bheith ann a chríochnú Them.'"

"You can _read_ that?" Donovan asked.

Ms. Hunter nodded. "I recognize the words. It's written in Irish!"

Hopkins walked over to the reporter. "Do you understand what it says?"

Ms. Hunter smiled. Since the events that transpired a year ago, the Inspector and the reporter had stayed on friendly terms with one another. "My father was from Ireland originally, and he taught me. Roughly translated, it means '_Jimmy Moriarty, if you insist on playing games, then you need to be able to finish them._' And someone signed it at the bottom. I will need to check on this, but it either means '_crow_' or '_raven._'"

Donovan and Lestrade shared a significant glance with one another but refrained from commenting.

Hopkins nodded. "Well, Violet, thank you for letting us know that! That is very helpful!"

"Does this mean I get an exclusive?" Ms. Hunter asked.

"When we know something, we will be sure to notify the press." Donovan replied easily. "But right now, it looks like just a stupid prank. Kids with nothing else to do, probably."

"But the message seems to be directed to Moriarty! As in _James Moriarty_!" Ms. Hunter added significantly. "Why would anyone send messages to a dead man?"

"Which is why we believe it is a prank, Ms. Hunter." Lestrade insisted.

"But Moriarty's body has never been recovered! It is previously believed someone under his employment removed his body from the roof! So no one knows for sure! Is the Metro Police considering the possibility that James Moriarty may still be alive?" Ms. Hunter prompted insistently.

"We have no evidence of that, Ms. Hunter. Now, if you would excuse us, please!" Lestrade said stoically.

* * *

_November 1st. Eighteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. _

"It would seem as though Ms. Morray has returned to London." Mycroft replied calmly, sitting in his private office and reading the headlines of the newspaper. He didn't seem surprised.

"Yes, Sir." Not-Anthea, or "Melissa," as she was known by this week. "A total of ten messages were found throughout London. They all had three Greek-styled letters, followed by the message, written in the Irish language. They are all signed by '_Raven.'_"

"Iota, Omicron, and Upsilon. Or, in their English equivalent, '_IOU_.'" Mycroft stated as he sipped his tea thoughtfully. "And all the CCTV cameras at the affected areas were disabled, so no one was able to observe the perpetrator or perpetrators."

"And the messages were addressed to a '_Jimmy Moriarty_.'" Not-Anthea noted.

"That was what Ms. Morray called her brother, when I last spoke to her almost nine years ago. And it is written in Irish, the language of their native homeland." Mycroft affirmed, almost to himself.

Not-Anthea paused for a few minutes. "Sir, if I may be excused for speaking out of turn, it is evident to me that there is something troubling you about this."

Mycroft gave no visible reaction. "All the evidence suggests that Ms. Morray is behind the messages, and she is either trying to lure her brother out in the open or is trying to disrupt his plans by announcing her presence to him."

Not-Anthea frowned. "But you don't believe that, do you, Sir?"

Mycroft set his fine china cup down on the side table. "As I have said, all the evidence points to Ms. Morray being the mysterious culprit behind the destruction of Moriarty's web. And yet it seems almost _too_ convenient. Despite the proof to the contrary, I can't help but wonder if perhaps I am missing something crucial. Something _obvious._"

"You believe there is another person involved? Or someone is masquerading as Ms. Morray?" Not-Anthea prompted. It was a rare thing when her employer was so open with his thoughts, and she wanted to take advantage of the situation.

Mycroft shook his head dismissively. "It is dangerous to rely on unsupported '_hunches_' or '_feelings_,' especially when logic dictates that Ms. Morray is indeed behind this operation."

Not-Anthea glanced over at her boss. "Sir, you know that if you ever need someone to talk to, you can always speak to me. Even if I can only act in that capacity."

Mycroft sat in silence for a few minutes, his expression a complete blank.

Not-Anthea felt uncomfortable. _Perhaps I said too much…_

"My contacts in America have brought me some information recently." Mycroft suddenly said, taking a moment to drink his tea. "As it turns out, Danielle Morray was not alone while she was hiding out in the States. She had a companion."

"A lover?" Not-Anthea asked. It wouldn't have surprised her. She had seen the pictures of Danielle Morray, and she was a very beautiful woman. Long, flowing red hair, warm brown eyes, and a lithe, athletic figure. She was very different in appearance from her older brother, and Not-Anthea could easily believe that Ms. Morray would not have several admirers throughout the years.

Mycroft surprised her by shaking his head. "A _child, _actually. A daughter, if my sources are correct. This would answer the mystery as to why Moriarty continued to seek Ms. Morray out, after all of this time."

"He was after her daughter." Not-Anthea realized.

Mycroft nodded in affirmation. "I deduce that Moriarty has been chasing after this child, and Ms. Morray, or whoever is acting on her behalf, is trying to destroy Moriarty for that very reason. That would explain why Ms. Morray would decide to go after her brother after so many years in hiding."

Not-Anthea nodded understandingly. She had no children herself, but she could sympathize with a mother's instinct to protect her child at all costs. "So Moriarty could be after the child as a means of getting vengeance against his sister."

"Yes, and no." Mycroft said airily. "I have acquired some data over the last year, thanks to Mr. Douglas, and I am now convinced that this previously unknown child is in fact the infamous hacker _Chimera._"

Not-Anthea kept her face neutral, but she could not hide the minute surprise coming from her voice. "Morray's daughter is _Chimera_? _She_ is the one sending us the information?"

Mycroft paused for a few minutes. "A few years ago, Danielle Morray was spotted in Dallas, Texas, where she had killed a few men at a local hospital. The killings were unorganized, hasty, and nothing like her normal pattern. A witness saw her run out of the hospital with a young girl in her arms."

"I see." Not-Anthea replied as awareness washed over her. "So Moriarty sent some of his men to abduct the child, and Ms. Morray retailiated."

"Correct." Mycroft answered, his face contemplative. "Once I learned of the incident, I decided to check my analysis of the current data again, and I received my answer just this week. My experts, including some of the best criminal profilers, behavioral experts, and psychiatrists in the world, have went over all the computer transactions and messages that have ever been attributed to either the _Delphi_ or the _Chimera_. And they are all in agreement. The _Delphi_ and the _Chimera_ are two different entities. And based on their observations, the _Chimera_ is likely a child, somewhere between the ages of five through ten years of age, with above-average intelligence."

"But…where is the child now?" Not-Anthea asked.

Mycroft sighed. "Ms. Morray is rather clever, especially with dealing with the likes of Moriarty. Virtually no record of the child exists. No pictures, no birth certificate, no medical records, nothing. All I have are eye witness accounts, and they tend to conflict with one another. It seems that Ms. Morray and the child were rarely seen in public, and when they were, they took great lengths to hide their true appearances."

"But you think that this child does exist, and that she is the reason Ms. Morray has come out of hiding." Not-Anthea surmised. "It would certainly explain everything, Sir. If there is a child out there with the same abilities as Ms. Morray, then Moriarty could use her to gain access to any computer program in the world. And, as a child, she would be far easier to control."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "I am still not convinced that the current hypothesis is correct. On the one hand, I have evidence to show that Ms. Morray suffered from incurable Non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, and that she died as a result of complications from dealing with the disease. The scant records I received seem to support that conclusion."

Abruptly, Mycroft scowled, then reached for his tea again. "However, there is conflicting evidence that suggests that she is still alive. The messages to Moriarty, the fact that whoever is in charge seems to be able to anticipate Moriarty's every move, and the full functionality of a shadow network that is even better at hiding than Moriarty is. And without more data, I cannot deduce the truth of the matter."

Not-Anthea regarded her boss curiously, but trustingly. "Well, if Ms. Morray is truly dead, then who do _you_ think is behind it?"

Mycroft frowned. "I honestly do not know."

* * *

"Dad, what are those?" Sheridan asked curiously, looking at the objects that her father had dumped on the table in their hotel room.

"Corks from wine bottles." Sherlock answered. "The rest is baking soda, and a bottle of vinegar. It's going to be your science lesson for today."

Sheridan pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Where did you get them?"

"In the chef's kitchen downstairs. The hotel staff is not as careful as they should be." Sherlock said, smiling deviously.

"And the other stuff? The metal pipe and the black powder?" Sheridan asked curiously.

"That's _my_ project, and it is extremely dangerous." Sherlock muttered, giving his daughter a sideways glance.

That turned out to be the wrong thing to say, as Sheridan was rather fearless when it came to most things. "So teach me!"

Sherlock froze half-way through setting out his materials, considering.

_Ok, what would John do in this situation?_

Well, John would not be making homemade pipe bombs, of course! That fell under the category of "_not good!_"

But assuming he _had_ to, say to protect Queen and Country from an invading force just outside Baker Street? And what if _he_ had a daughter like Sheridan, who wanted to learn everything?

"Dad, you have that funny look on your face again, like when you are debating whether to teach me something or make me wait!" Sheridan pouted, folding her hands over her chest in an impatient manner.

_Ah, yes!_ The tried and true "_wait till you are older_" answer! Some things already existed in those newly created rooms in Sherlock's memory palace. Some subjects that he would either be forced to tell Sheridan about after she reached a proper age or, lacking that, get an appropriate substitute to explain the subject to her.

For example, the question of "_Dad, can I help with murder investigations too?_" fell solidly into the category of "_Not until you are a little older._"

However, other subjects, such as the infamous "_Dad, where do babies come from?_" were given the classic answer of "_Uncle John is a doctor, and he will be better able to explain it to you._"

_So which category did instruction on how to handle explosives fall into?_

"If I teach you, will you promise to follow my directions exactly, and to never do it, or any other experiments, without my supervision?" Sherlock asked evenly, staring at his daughter to try to convey just how serious the situation was.

Sheridan nodded willingly. "Mom said the same thing when she taught me about guns, and I _never_ play with them! Because guns are _weapons_, and not _toys_! And they should always be treated with respect, or someone will get hurt!" Sheridan recited the words her mother had passed down to her years ago.

Sherlock nodded, satisfied. If Sheridan _was_ careful, she could prove to be a valuable assistant with his experiments someday. "Well, the same rule applies with what I am doing now. Basically, I am mixing common ingredients together to make improvised explosive devices."

Sheridan frowned. "I don't understand what that means."

"I'm making several bombs." Sherlock clarified.

"_Oh!_" Sheridan's eyes widened in worry and awe. "But that's what _terrorists_ use! Won't you get into trouble?"

Sherlock groaned in exasperation. "I don't plan to incinerate anything with these, Sheri! However, they may prove useful when dealing with Moriarty, and I want to be prepared."

Sheridan looked at her father critically. "How does having bombs help you against Moriarty? Moriarty _likes_ bombs, according to Mom!"

"I'll explain later. But first, if you are going to learn this, we need to first learn how to make a homemade fire extinguisher, so you have it with you in case you need it."

"Can't I use a regular fire extinguisher?" Sheridan asked.

Sherlock furrowed his forehead in thought. "You can, and that is often preferable. However, you may find yourself in a position where the fire extinguisher is empty, so this knowledge is extremely valuable for you to have." Sherlock explained.

_Considering all the times he set the kitchen on fire, this was something he had vast experience on!_

Sheridan accepted this explanation and started to read the label on the back of the box of baking soda. "So how does the fire extinguisher work? How do you make one?"

Sherlock relaxed slightly. "First, let me lock the door and put the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door knob, in case the hotel staff wonders why all their wine bottles are uncorked. Then we will get to work."

* * *

After teaching Sheridan how to make her own personal fire extinguisher using a mason jar, vinegar, baking soda, and corks, Sherlock went to work on making six pipe bombs from ingredients he "borrowed" around the hotel, as well as a few items his contact bought around London, particularly in places that didn't believe in keeping paperwork of such transactions.

For her part, Sheridan watched, fascinated, as her father carefully inserted the fuses into the pipes, hugging the mason jar to her chest and looking as though she was secretly hoping she would get a chance to use it, just to see if it really worked.

Finally finished, Sherlock carefully wrapped the bombs in newspaper before carefully placing them in a suitcase and sliding them under one of the beds. "Now, you know you are not allowed to open this suitcase. Correct?"

Sheridan rolled her eyes. _What was it with adults that they thought children didn't listen?_ "Correct. But I still don't know why you needed to make bombs for!"

"Moriarty's tactics has always been to threaten other people to get what he wants." Sherlock answered stoically. "Maybe I can turn the tables on him by using his own methods against him."

Sheridan shrugged good-naturedly. "That sounds logical. Too bad Moriarty doesn't care about anyone! But it probably wouldn't be fair to use a hostage against him anyway. And I wouldn't want to do it."

"It is true Moriarty is a psychopath, Sheridan. He cares for no one. But he _does_ care about winning the game, Sheri. So I plan to use that against him." Sherlock noted curtly. "Now we need to go over what you learned for history today. If I recall correctly, you were supposed to study everything you could find on the internet about the Pyramids of Giza."

Sheridan sighed. History was a subject that she considered dull beyond belief. Dad agreed with her, but Mom had thought it was important, so she continued to go over it.

_Still…_

"I don't understand why it is so important for me to learn why the Egyptians built the pyramids in the first place!" Sheridan grumbled. "I _saw_ the pyramids! In person! Isn't that enough?"

Sherlock gazed at his daughter, his expression slightly amused. "I know. It's utterly boring and pointless, as far as relevant information goes, and you will likely delete it from your memory, once you no longer need it. But as you are still young, and since those in charge of the education system still think this material will help you in everyday life, you are stuck learning it." Sherlock replied.

"I know." Sheridan sighed in resignation. "But I rather learn about how to make mummies or something! Why should I care about a building that is shaped like a triangle?" Sheridan finished irritably. She paused, looking at her father for confirmation.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Dad?" Sheridan asked.

Sherlock stared fixedly ahead at the blank wall of the hotel room.

Frowning in annoyance, Sheridan jumped out of her chair and set her fire extinguisher on the floor. "_Dad?_"

Sherlock still didn't respond.

"Dad, are you going to your memory palace again?" Sheridan asked.

When Sherlock didn't respond to his daughter's inquiries, Sheridan shrugged. If Dad was in his memory palace, he would probably stay there for a few minutes at least. So Sheridan took that to mean that the history lesson was thankfully put on hold. Taking advantage of the situation, Sheridan retrieved her Kindle and began reading one of the books she had stored on there.

She had learned from experience that Dad often needed to work in complete silence, so it was best that she waited.

* * *

As his daughter had correctly deduced, Sherlock had retreated to his memory palace. Going through his memories. Everything he had ever read. Everything he had ever seen. Everything he had ever heard. All stored in his infallible mind, just waiting to be retrieved on his hard drive.

_Pyramids._ Something that Sheridan said. No, not pyramids, but _triangles._ And that word was important.

_Somehow._

Newspaper article from the London Gazette. Dated September 21st. Satanic Slasher Claims Eighteenth Victim. _Article not important._ _**Delete**_. Picture of victim. Male, forty-one, confined to wheelchair. _Not important. __**Delete**_**.**

_Focus on picture. _

Image of victim's back, the jumper slit apart. John likes jumpers. _**Stop**_. _Not relevant,_ _but must not delete information about John._ Picture of numbers on man's back. Carved into the skin postmortem. Three numbers. Three "sixes." Hence, the Satanic Slasher. _Not important._ _**Delete.**_

Position of numbers. Middle number slightly positioned higher up, while the other two numbers are aligned with one another.

Positions like a perfect equilateral triangle.

_Shaped like a Pyramid._

Egyptian pyramids. _Not important_. _**Delete.**_

Locations of pyramids in London.

_Go through listings in phone book._

Pyramid Storage. Entrepreneur business that went bankrupted in 2007.

_Go through public notice announcements from newspapers around that time._

Various buildings located throughout London. Either sold or abandoned.

Original owner of business…_Lucas Powers._

The fraternal uncle of _Carl Powers_, Moriarty's first victim, at the pool…

_That's it!_

* * *

"Sheridan. I need to go out! I'll be back in a few hours!"

Sheridan looked up hopefully. "Does that mean history is canceled?"

"Yes, Sheri. No history lesson tonight." Sherlock affirmed.

"That's good!" Sheridan said, smiling with relief. "But where are you going?"

"I need to track down one of the Bad Men, Sheri. I should be back soon."

"_But Dad!_" Sheridan exclaimed, distress evident on her face. "It's _late!_ What if the Bad Men see you?"

"They won't recognize me." Sherlock said, dashing to the closet and pulling out some clothes.

Sheridan studied the clothing choices with interest. Faded jeans with tears in them. Mismatched shoes. A dirty pull-over. A ratty old blue coat that had seen better days. "You are dressing up like someone from the Homeless Network." Sheridan realized.

Sherlock nodded absently. "Exactly! No one notices the homeless, Sheri. People go out of their way to avoid them. That is why they are so useful. And that is why Moriarty won't catch me. He has never seen their potential, and thus has failed to utilize it."

Sheridan smiled, partly mollified by this development, but she couldn't assuage the worry that clawed at her. "But if you don't come back…"

"Sheridan." Sherlock said, turning to face his daughter. "What did I promise you, every time I had to leave for a while?"

"That you would always come back to get me. No matter what!" Sheridan answered softly.

"And this time is no different." Sherlock said calmly, hoping his demeanor would put his daughter at ease. "I promise you I'll come back. And you must promise to stay out of trouble until I return. Is that clear?"

"I won't mess with your bombs, if that's what you mean!" Sheridan answered sulkily.

"That's _exactly_ what I mean." Sherlock replied, awkwardly but gently patting Sheridan on her shoulder. Then, in a rare act of affection, he reached out and ruffled her curls. "But I _will _be back for you! In a few hours! _I promise._"

* * *

It was approaching eleven, and Sherlock was no closer to locating Moriarty's hideout that he was four hours ago, when he said farewell to Sheridan, being sure to leave her his phone, his flat key, and anything else that could potentially be traced back to the hotel, as he didn't want to inadvertently lead Moriarty to Sheri in case he was captured.

It turned out that Pyramid Storage had several locations scattered throughout London. A total of twenty-eight buildings. He had already checked ten of them, but that still left eighteen more.

Soon he would be forced to turn back, least Sheridan would get anxious and, perhaps, try to find him.

Even though she has always listened to him when she was told to stay behind, Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before Sheridan would act upon her worry and chase after him. He could already see the independence, so very much like his own, struggling to get out, and he couldn't afford to ignore it.

_Life was certainly less complicated without a child._

But at the same time, Sherlock was sure his life over the past year would have been utter Hell had Sheridan not been there. Without either of them planning on it, Sheridan became Sherlock's unconditional supporter and student. She was a main reason why, during the worst days, he did not resort to drugs, for fear that someone could kidnap her while he was getting high. When he found himself craving a cigarette, his mind inevitably flashed back to the image of Sheridan, huddled under a mountain of blankets, gasping and chocking, and the craving lessened considerably, allowing him to settle with his nicoteen patches instead.

She also became a physical symbol that reminded him of all the reasons that he could not afford to fail.

Also, if he was truly honest with himself, he enjoyed being around Sheridan. She was a constant puzzle, always observing everything around her with unequalled wonder. It was hard to imagine that there was ever a time that he looked upon the world with the same optimism and enjoyment as Sheridan did, but surely there was a time he did. All children went through that stage at some point.

_And she loved Sherlock._

That idea brought mixed feelings for Sherlock (yes, _feelings_, damn it, because they were not logical). To see himself through Sheridan's eyes. Sherlock was a protector, a teacher, a comforter, a guide, and all that was good in the world after her mother's tragic passing.

And he was _her _father, which somehow made Sherlock priceless, as far as Sheridan was concerned.

But this did not bring feelings of pride or accomplishment to Sherlock. If anything, it worried him.

Sherlock could never recall a time when he viewed his own father with the same hero-worship that Sheridan seemed to feel towards him.

And someday, inevitably, she would learn what he _really_ was, a sociopath and a freak.

Then he would lose that love and admiration. And he realized that it bothered him.

* * *

Suddenly, he saw a shadowy figure creep silently in one of the back alleys, not far from the corner he was hiding. A tall man, almost seven feet, with a black ski mask, black long-sleeve shirt, and black trousers.

_The Slasher…_

Sherlock immediately crouched down, melting into the shadows of the corner that had served as his vantage point, making him partially invisible. His heart began to beat wildly, and he struggled to get it back to normal.

The Slasher is on a mission tonight.

_Perhaps I can follow him, and he can lead me to Moriarty's hideout._

But this was something of a puzzle. Even though it was dark, there were still a few people walking around in the streets just outside the alleyways. From what Sherlock could see, the few people out were all walking in groups, so the idea that the Slasher was choosing a random victim was unlikely.

Curious, Sherlock took a few steps closer to where he had saw the Slasher. His sense of smell, like the rest of his senses, was strangely acute, and he immediately smelled a sharp, metallic smell, like a handfull of pennies.

Blood...

The Slasher had already killed someone.

Footsteps. Sherlock raced back to his position.

There! There was the Slasher again! Had he heard Sherlock, and come back to investigate?

But no! He's looking around, but not pausing long enough to listen for anyone. It was more like he was waiting.

But waiting for what?

Sherlock realized that while his sharp nose had picked up the faint trace of blood in the air, he could not detect the smell of burnt human flesh. But that made no sense. The Slasher always burnt the heart of his victim before he left.

Thus, while the Slasher had already killed someone tonight, he was not done.

Sherlock watched with growing horror as the Slasher quietly left again. There was no reason why the Slasher would kill someone, unless it was to get to a particular person.

So tonight, Moriarty had sent the Slasher to go after a specific victim…

_But who?_ According to his source, John was at Baker Street tonight, and while the flat was close by, the Slasher was headed in the wrong direction. Also, Ms. Hudson had decided to leave the day before to go visit her sister. Lestrade was at the Yard, surrounded by his fellow officers, making an attack on him virtually impossible. And Mycroft? He was safe inside his fortress office at Whitehall.

_Then that meant…_

Jumping up quickly, Sherlock raced after the killer, his shoes barely making a mark in the dirt as he darted through the shadows like a cat hunting its prey.

* * *

Mary paused to lock the door of the back entrance of the school behind her. Normally, she never stayed this late, but tonight she had to endure a staff meeting, then stay behind to put in some of her students' tests scores into the computer so that they would be able to calculate their grades before the end-of-term exams coming within the next few weeks. She would have done it sooner, but the school computers have been down for the last week, and only now were brought back on line this afternoon.

She supposed she could have come back to school during the weekend and do it, like most of her colleagues, but she chose to take advantage of the fact that she had an armed entourage to protect her against any threats that may be lurking out on London's streets.

Her two night-time bodyguards, whose names were Richard and Leland, were young men, both clean cut and serious. They were just outside, near the back entrance, waiting to escort her home.

Finally managing to lock the door, she turned to look for the black Cadillac, which thankfully wasn't hard to spot, as it was located directly under one of London's street lamps, barely a few meters away.

_Too bad it's so late._ Mary thought to herself. John will probably be in bed, but chances are he won't be sleeping well.

_Ever since we found out Moriarty is alive, I don't think he has had much sleep at all. _

Mary continued to walk to the car and stopped a few feet away. Normally, Leland would jump out of the passenger seat and open the door for her. Then, once they driven her home, Richard would do a quick scan of her apartment while Leland waited outside with her until Richard determined that the situation was safe. Then they would park across the street and watch the apartment until 5:30 a.m. in the morning, when they were replaced by two other agents, whom she knew as Rodger and Michael.

But this time, something was wrong. Leland didn't come to open the door.

Frowning, Mary took a few steps closer to the car and tried to peer inside, but the windows were heavily tinted.

_Maybe they fell asleep? _ Mary wondered. If so, she probably wouldn't tell on them, as it was the first time it happened since this whole thing had started.

Not that she could blame them, of course. When you compare it to international espionage, following a school teacher around was hardly a scintillating activity!

Cautiously, she knocked on the driver side door, hoping not to alarm the agents inside to where they suddenly jumped out and pointed their guns at her before they realized what had happened. When she detected no movement, she knocked again, with more force.

Still no answer.

_Ok, now this was becoming ridiculous!_

Frowning in irritation, Mary gripped the door handle and was shocked that it opened so readily. Richard, one of her bodyguards, immediately fell out of the car and slumped to the ground.

Mary barely registered the fact that some of Richard's blood splattered on her shoes before an iron hand grabbed her over her mouth.

* * *

_Oh, God!_ Mary thought desperately as her mammoth attacker drug her farther into the alleyway. Once she had gotten over the crippling paralysis of the first few moments, she began to kick and punch as hard as she could, but her attacker paid her no mind, except to wrap on of his colossal arms around her waist, pinning her arms to her side. Then, he lifted her several inches off the ground and proceeded to take her deeper into a dark alley located only a few meters away from the car.

His other hand never left her mouth.

Despite her all-consuming panic, time seemed to slow down for Mary, and she was able to observe things she otherwise would have missed. First, the streetlamp located directly in front of the alley was dark, and Mary observed minute tints of glass near its base.

Mary noticed other things too. She saw that John was right. The Slasher (for who else could it possibly be?) was almost seven feet tall, which explained how easy it was for him to overpower his victims and carry them to the place of his choosing.

As John and Ms. Hunter had observed before, the Slasher was dressed completely in black, with his face covered by a ski mask that covered everything except his soulless eyes.

Mary scuffled and kicked some more, desperate to get away. The minute the Slasher had her far enough in the alley, he would slit her throat, and it would all be over!

And she didn't want to die! Not now! A few years ago, her father's name was cleared, and she could hold her head up in public again! Then she fulfilled her life-long dream of becoming a teacher, and then she met John, and finally knew what it meant to love another person!

_John!_

He would be devastated when he got the call that they found her body! He had never really gotten over the death of Sherlock, after all. She owed it to John, and to herself, to fight until every ounce of her life blood was drained from her!

Finally, the Slasher stopped, still seemingly obvious to Mary's frantic struggles. With surprising ease, he slipped his arm away from her waist and hit her sharply in her solarplex, just underneath her ribs.

Mary's version swam as she gasped for air, even as the Slasher bodily flung her against the alley wall, still holding her by the throat with one hand. Her head slammed against the unyielding stone, and she briefly saw stars. She felt her back scratch uncomfortably against the aging brick, but barely registered her discomfort when she saw the Slasher had pulled out a long, gleaming blade from somewhere deep within his black coat.

Gaging and gasping for breath, Mary knew she had nowhere to escape to. She involuntarily darted her eyes away as the cold blade was pressed against her throat. Yet for some reason she turned her face away to focus on her hand, at the engagement ring John gave her…

_John, I love you! I tried to stay alive for you! _

_Please forgive me…_

* * *

And then, suddenly, there was a shout, and the blade was gone. Sagging, Mary blinked against the dizziness she was feeling and saw the Slasher grunting in effort as another man, with dark hair and a tattered blue coat, was grappling with the knife.

Mary couldn't readily recall what happened next. The Slasher, a behemoth in his own right, was remarkably agile, and easily towered over his opponent by a foot at least. Yet the homeless man was surprising versatile, and seemed to have extensive knowledge of martial arts as he weaved, ducked, and sideswiped all the Slasher's efforts to subdue him with almost whimsical grace.

The unidentified rescuer finally managed to aim a kick into the Slasher's kneecap, and the killer pitched forward, grunting in pain. Then he turned to the terrified woman, who up till now was petrified into immobility. She couldn't see his face, but she knew he could see her.

What happened next shocked her more than anything else.

_"Ms. Morstan! Run!"_

* * *

**Author's Note**: Oh no! A _cliff hanger!_ How could I do this? How could I be so cruel?

I'm not, actually. I just fell asleep (finally), and I will finish this up in the next chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." That right belongs to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. And they won't share!

**Peaceful Defender** (yawning)-Well, what do you think?

**Mycroft Holmes**-If you are asking me to comment on your failure as a writer, by leaving your esteemed audience in a deplorable state of suspense, then perhaps you need to speak to Mr. Douglas.

**OC Chase Douglas**-Ouch! That was _harsh_, DMP! What's with the flames? This is her first story! Give her a break!

**Peaceful Defender** (smirking)-Mycroft, you're just upset that you can't figure out what's going on!

**OC Chase Douglas**-What is she talking about, DMP? We know Moriarty is alive, and we know his sister, Ms. Morray, is on our side! What else is there to learn? Well, we don't know who Chimera is yet! I guess that is something we don't know, you know?

**Mycroft Holmes** (points umbrella at Peaceful Defender)-Indeed! That is why we are here. To procure some information that may be of value to us.

**Peaceful Defender-**_Mycroft!_ Put that thing down before you hurt someone!

**Mycroft Holmes **(smiling)-You seem nervous. Your pupils are dilated, and your breath is uneven...

**Peaceful Defender**-Because I _know_ what you keep hidden in that umbrella! Now put it down!

**Mycroft Holmes**-You may be the writer of this story, Peaceful Defender. But remember that I occupy a minor position in the British Government, and I am now involved in a matter of upmost importance right now, and thus I can ill-afford the luxury of patience. What are you hiding?

**Peaceful Defender-**Why don't you just wait for the next chapter, like everyone else!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Because the DMP doesn't wait for _anyone!_ He has more power than Santa Claus!

**Peaceful Defender**-_What!_

**OC Chase Douglas**-You know? Santa Claus? Father Christmas? The Big Guy in the Red Suit? Well, I been debating on whether I should re-name the DMP that! I mean, look at the similarities! They are both, eh, big men in their respective fields…

**Peaceful Defender**-I think he is calling you _fat_, Mycroft!

**OC Chase Douglas**-No I'm not! But anyway, look at the song "Santa Claus is Coming to Town!" "_He sees you when you're sleeping! He knows when you're awake!_" The DMP is also all-seeing, and all-knowing!

**Peaceful Defender**-And now I know I am _never, ever_ going to get back to sleep! I'll be having nightmares of Mycroft coming out of chimneys at Christmas time! Someone, please review!


	15. Chapter 14

**Warning: Blood, violence, cursing, and death in this chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Sentinel**

"Cursed is the man who dies, but the evil done by him survives." Abu Bakr.

* * *

"_Ms. Morstan!_ _Run!_" Sherlock yelled while struggling with the man in front of him.

The next few moments were curiously fast and yet agonizingly slow. Sherlock recalled the panicked look on Mary's drained face as she raced out of the alley and to safety. Then there was a few seconds where he felt nothing at all as he continued to kick, duck, punch, dodge, and block as the Slasher, who managed to get back on his feet in a few seconds, continued to try to stab him with the long, serrated blade.

Years ago, he had the distinct displeasure of meeting the Slasher before. He had already deduced his identity, and he knew that the Slasher would not be easy to take down. The man was a giant in all respects, seemingly impervious to pain, and a trained assassin.

Although he had deviated from his usual _modus operandi_ of strangling his victims to death, (probably at the behest of his employer, Moriarty), the man still enjoyed asphyxiating his victims, be it by squeezing the life out of them or causing to choke on their own blood.

But if the Slasher had learned a few new skills, so too had Sherlock. While he was in Japan and China, some of the contacts he was forced to stay with taught him other branches of martial arts, including Ninjutsu, Jujutsu, and Kung Fu.

He wasn't an expert, because it takes years to become a master at any of these disciplines. However, the skills he learned made him faster and better able to hold his own against an armed opponent.

He was hoping the Slasher would simply run, allowing him to follow him and possibly leading him to Moriarty's hideout, but is seemed as though the Slasher had other plans. Deprived of his intended target, the Slasher had seemed to have lost all control as he kept stabbing the knife towards Sherlock, often meeting air as Sherlock skillfully dodged the onslaught.

At some point, Sherlock managed to punch the man right in the jaw, a feat he found satisfying, considering the Slasher was taller than he was. The Slasher doubled over with a look of surprise mixed with pain.

Thinking quickly, Sherlock moved in to disarm him…

The man grunted and elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. Wincing, Sherlock doubled over, allowing the Satanic Slasher to grab him from behind, one arm around his neck. Breathing quickly, in greedy anticipation, the Slasher brought the blade to Sherlock's throat…

_Bloody hell!_ Sherlock aimed a sideways kick into the man's kneecap and simultaneously twisted forward. The blade pieced his skin and burned as the Slasher succeeded in inflicting a jagged cut across Sherlock's throat. Crimson droplets fell to the ground like priceless rubies as Sherlock twisted from his attackers grip.

The Satanic Slasher screamed in agony. His kneecap, weakened earlier, had finally broken by Sherlock's continuous attacks. Wincing, he stumbled forward, knife raised.

Sherlock grabbed his arm with one hand while his other arm pressed against the gash in his neck. The two men held that position for a few seconds, straining against each other.

Suddenly Sherlock let go of his neck and applied his hand to the other man's throat and seized hard. The Slasher's eyes widened in shock and he instinctively reach for Sherlock's hand to remove it before he suffocated. That was when Sherlock turned and grabbed both of the man's arms and twisted them in front.

The Slasher's eyes bulged.

Confused, Sherlock looked down, but didn't loosen his grip. He glanced down, hoping that the Slasher had dropped his weapon. But, somehow, the Slasher still held onto his knife.

Which was now sticking in his chest.

For a second, Sherlock froze, horrified.

He had killed men before, of course. But this was different.

_This was not the plan! He was supposed to drop the knife, so that I could capture him and incapacitate him until he could tell me where Moriarty was hiding!_

Sherlock watched with growing horror as the Slasher gripped the wooden handle in a desperate attempt to pull out the dagger, but it was buried too deep. Bright atrial blood poured from the wound, indicating he would bleed out in moments.

Rivers of the red blood pooled on the ground as the Slasher plunged forward after Sherlock released him. Moving mechanically, Sherlock cautiously turned the man over.

The Slasher looked up at him, gasping. After Sherlock had let him go, he had finally managed to maneuver the weapon out of his chest, and he made an attempt to stab at Sherlock, but the movement was half-hearted at best.

Sherlock grabbed the knife from the Slasher's limp hand and flung it in the darkness. He tore off the Slasher's ski mask and pressed the fabric over the wound in a furtive attempt to save him.

But there was nothing Sherlock could do. He was not going to make it.

"Where is he!" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth. His own blood fell on the Slasher and co-mingled with the pool of crimson surrounding them. "Where is Moriarty hiding!"

The Slasher looked at Sherlock, shocked. Sherlock could deduce what he was thinking. _How did he know Moriarty was behind this?_

"I _know_ Moriarty employed you! I know the meaning behind the killings! _'I will burn the heart out of you!'_ That is his message, isn't it?" Sherlock yelled, then coughed as he tasted the corrosive iron of his own blood in the back of his mouth. "_Tell me where he is!"_

The Slasher coughed, splattering bright red droplets onto himself and Sherlock.

"I _will_ stop him!" Sherlock muttered angrily. "Now tell me where he is, Oscar Dzundza!"

The Slasher made a curiously choked noise. His eyes widened, as if by surprise. His eyes locked onto Sherlock's.

For a moment, Sherlock could actually _see_ the man's awareness leave him. His pain, his memories, his very being, leaking out onto the ground. The Slasher's eyes focused again, and for one brief second, Sherlock could tell that _he_ was being seen.

Then the man's dark eyes lost all awareness and glazed over.

Now Sherlock was left kneeling beside a life-sized, bloodied shell that once housed a man. A killer, yes, but a man as well.

Cursing under his breath, Sherlock stood up and took a moment to rip the sleeve off of his dirty trench coat and tie it around the wound on his neck. It wasn't too deep, thank goodness, and it wasn't bleeding too badly. But he would need to get medical attention for it. He finally noticed the shallow cuts that covered his hands and arms. The Slasher (or the Golem, as Sherlock thought him to be), managed to cut him up quite a bit in the fray.

The front of the alley was suddenly bathed in gold and red light from a flashing siren.

_Crap!_

Looks like someone had summoned the Yard, and they had responded quickly.

_Of all the times for them to show an ounce of competence, why did it have to be now!_

With sickening dread, Sherlock realized that he couldn't stick around.

For one thing, _he_ would be suspected of murdering the man lying on the ground in front of him!

It was one thing for someone to kill another while protecting themselves, or even protecting someone else. But if you are Sherlock Holmes, a.k.a. supposedly dead detective, it would _definitely_ look suspicious!

Sherlock could almost imagine the look on Donovan's face if she saw this. Her taunting voice echoed in the back of his mind.

_You finally left us a body to find, didn't you, Freak? What happened this time? Did you hire him to kill all those people, so you could come out looking like a hero?_

Sherlock scoffed at the thought. As he once told John, there were no such things as heroes, and even if there were, he certainly wouldn't be one of them. So why the hell would he try to pretend to be one when the entire world knew he wasn't?

_A sociopath? Absolutely! A bastard who got his kicks from examining murders? A little extreme, but true. An arrogant bastard who faked his death? Obviously!_

_But a cold-blooded murderer?_

_He would like to think otherwise, but knowing the Yard, he would be found guilty regardless._

But he couldn't be caught now. Not until Moriarty was dealt with.

Scotland Yard can lock him up for as long as they want to after that, but _not_ before!

Glancing around quickly, Sherlock raced into the other direction and was soon swallowed up in the darkness.

* * *

"What the bloody hell?" Donovan swore as she viewed the scene of utter carnage before her. This certainly wasn't what she expected, when she and Hopkins got a call from dispatch about a potential mugger with a weapon.

There was a man, or what once was a man, lying in a spreading pool of blood, face up and face slack. A large knife lay near the wall of the alley, a few meters from the body. A dark piece of fabric was pressed into the wound, but judging from the blood loss, it was a wasted effort.

The victim himself was dressed in black trousers, a black turtleneck, and black boots with soft treads. Even lying prostrate on the ground, Donovan could tell that the man was easily six or seven feet in height. His face was white as paste, and his dark eyes were staring upward, unseeing, at the night sky above.

"He's already dead." Hopkins muttered, not bothering to check the man's vital signs. He could tell, even from where he was standing, that the man was beyond any help that they could give him. Also, there was just too much blood. _Why bother to contaminate the crime scene at this point? _ "Let's secure the scene! Call in Anderson! Or Clarky! Whoever's closer!"

"_Stan!_" Mary's panic voice rang from the entrance of the alley. "What do you see? Is he still alive? Did the man who attacked me get away? Have you called…DEAR GOD!"

Stan watched as Mary began to shake violently, her face losing all trace of color. He ran over to her and caught her just before her knees gave way.

"Is this the man who came to your aid?" Sally asked, speaking quietly in a vain attempt to calm the woman down.

"NO! _That's_ the guy who attacked me!" Mary screeched, tears falling from her cheeks. She looked up, looking completely dazed. "But where's the other man? The one in the blue coat! Where did he go?"

"You say someone came to your aid and attacked this guy so you could escape?" Hopkins asked.

Mary nodded numbly, not taking her eyes off the corpse in front of her. "_That_ man there grabbed me and drug me here! And…oh dear God! _Richard!_ And _Leland!_ The two men who guard me! He must have killed them! I was getting into the car, and…"

At this point, Mary sank to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, her breath coming in short hitches. Donovan holstered her weapon and crouched beside the distraught woman, gently patting her shoulders. "It's alright, Mary. Sush! Just calm down, alright? Take deep breaths. We're here. Sush! Calm down. The ambulance is on its way"

Donovan's words had a calming effect on Mary, and with an almost inhumane effort, she slowed her rapid breathing, although she couldn't stop the tears streaming down her face.

"Are you hurt anywhere, Mary?" Hopkins asked.

Mary sighed. "That man punched me hard in the chest, just below my ribs. It hurts a little, but I'm alright. And he threw me up against the wall."

"Is that what happened to your head?" Donovan asked softly.

Mary frowned, then reached back to the area where her head was throbbing the most. Her fingers felt something wet and sticky when she withdrew them.

Donovan reached into her pocket and pulled out a pair of keys with a small torch attached to it. She turned it on and shined the light down on Mary's head. "Looks like the bastard did a number on you. You have a gash on the back of your head, but it doesn't look too bad. Are you dizzy? We can take you back to the car until the ambulance arrives…"

"I'm alright! Really!" Mary protested. "I just need a few moments, and then you can drive me home."

"Mary!" Hopkins spoke sharply. "You need to go to the hospital to get checked out! You may have a concussion! Do you want for John to see you like _this?"_

Mary closed her eyes and sighed in defeat. If she went home, John would see her in her blood-splattered clothes, her disheveled hair, and the bruises that were beginning to form on her arms, neck, and chest.

Then he would take her to the hospital himself.

"Can we make sure it's not Bart's? I don't think John can handle it if we went there, even if it is closer…"

Hopkins smiled gently. "I'll take care of it."

Donovan took off her coat and draped it around Mary's shoulders before pointing her light back at the crime scene, leaving Hopkins to question Mary and get more details.

"Do you want to wait until later to give a statement?" Hopkins asked quietly. "Maybe after the paramedics check you out?"

Mary shook her head, a few strands of her hair escaping from her ponytail. "_No!_ I can do this!" She said determinedly. "That man, the dead one, drug me over here, as I have already said. He had the knife to my throat. I thought I was going to die! Then another man suddenly jumps out and tackles him! He told me to run! I did, and stopped the first car I saw and had the driver call you…"

"_Stan!_ Look at this!" Donovan shouted. She pointed her light on the other side of the pool of blood still issuing from the man's corpse. Her light found bloody shoe prints leading away from the scene and going in the opposite direction.

"Looks like the guy stabbed your attacker, and then ran off!" Hopkins speculated, hands still around Mary's shoulders in an attempt to comfort her.

"But why?" Mary asked, awestruck.

_The man saved her life, and then left the area as if he did something wrong! _

_Was he afraid he would be arrested for murder?_

"I think he might be injured." Donovan said, stepping as close to the spreading blood without disturbing it. "Do you see those blood droplets around the footsteps, Stan? I think the guy could be hurt."

The conversation was interrupted by the appearance of another police car, red and yellow lights casting colorful shadows in the darkened alley. The door flew open to reveal a familiar, beefy, red-faced officer.

"What the _bloody hell _is going on?" Baxley demanded as he hurried into the alley. "I hear on dispatch that the Satanic Slasher was attacking someone, and _OH FUCK!_" Baxley swore when he saw the corpse in the alley. "_What happened?_"

"We don't have time, Baxley!" Hopkins yelled. "Basically, this man attacked Ms. Morstan here, and another man saved her, but he fled the scene before we got here! I need you to go and see if you can find him! I'll stay here with Ms. Morstan until the ambulance arrives! Donovan, you take Baxley and try to catch the guy! He ran through there, so he must have come out near the East Docks. I want him for questioning!"

"What are you _doing_, Stan! That man saved my life!" Mary protested.

"I'm trying to save _his_ life, Mary! If he's injured, then he may need medical attention!" He glared up at Baxley. "Baxley, listen very carefully to what I'm telling you! The man saved Ms. Morstan from this bloke here! So as far as I'm concerned, it was self-defense! So the man is just wanted for questioning!" Hopkins explains, gesturing towards the body. "So don't _arrest_ the guy! Do you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah! I got it!" Baxley said sullenly before turning and racing back towards his car.

Hopkins frowned in annoyance and worry. He turned towards Donovan. "Sally, I'm counting on you! Don't let Baxley get carried away!" Hopkins told Donovan, giving a significant look in Baxley's direction.

Baxley, as it was already known throughout the Yard, tended to use unnecessary force when he went after people. The last thing the Yard needed was for one of their own to beat up a man who potentially stopped the Satanic Slasher, if forensic evidence matched the knife to the crimes.

At the very least, the poor man saved Ms. Morstan from a robbery attempt, and he certainly didn't need to be roughed up before they pieced together what happened.

_Too bad Baxley had to be around when the call came through… _

Donovan nodded. She understood. "I'll take care of it."

* * *

_"John."_

_ "Sherlock?"_

_ "Help me, John!"_

_ John looked around frantically. He was in front of an unfamiliar building. Fire. Smoke. The building is on fire._

_ "HELP ME JOHN!"_

_ Oh God! Sherlock's in there! I got to save him! _

_Frantically, John tries to run towards the doorway. But he falls down after one step. His leg has given out. Where's his cane? He can't lose Sherlock!_

_ "HELP ME JOHN!"_

_ Suddenly, the building collapses in a specular display of fiery sparks and debris._

_ "SHERLOCK!"_

"_Sherlock!_" John screamed, bolting upright. Gasping, he looked around, trying to catch his breath.

_Just a dream. Just another bloody nightmare._

"Deep breaths." John told himself. Breath in slowly, exhale slowly. Repeat until heart rate goes back to normal.

Another dream of Sherlock. The same bloody dream that has haunted him for the past few months. Sherlock trapped in a burning building, and John is powerless to help.

_Why did he keep having the same dream over and over?_

Fumbling around to untangle himself from the sweat-drenched sheets, John stumbled out of his bed and glanced at the clock. Eleven forty-one in the evening.

_No chance of me going back to sleep any time soon. Might as well make a cuppa._

* * *

Ten minutes later, John sighed with pleasure as he drank the freshly brewed tea, enjoying how it quenched his thirst just as it soothed his nerves.

In about twenty-five hours, it will be the anniversary of _that _day. The day that the rest of the world learned the truth about Sherlock.

Already he observed several anniversaries after his friend's untimely death. Sherlock's birthday was one such day. And the anniversary of Sherlock's death, of course.

But this anniversary brought mixed feelings. As always, anything connected with Sherlock brought with it a sense of sadness, as it reminded John, over and over again, exactly what he lost. Learning that Sherlock had died to save him (miserable, ordinary, worthless John Watson) brought undeniable guilt as well.

If it wasn't for him, Sherlock would still be alive.

However, it was a relief, in a sense, to know that he was right all along. When the rest of the world doubted Sherlock, he knew the man wasn't making it up. After the truth was revealed, John felt a sense of vindication as well as satisfaction.

Sherlock Holmes was a hero.

And, more importantly, he learned that Sherlock saw him as a friend.

Suddenly, his cell phone beeped, indicating he had a text message. Frowning, he opened the message. _Who the bloody hell could be calling him at this hour?_

**To: John Watson**

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**In re: Hospital**

_John, Mary is at St. Catherine's. She was attacked by the Slasher but is fine. Come soon.-GL._

* * *

_November 2__nd__. Eighteen months since the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

The sound of water lapping on the shore roused Sherlock from her unconscious state. He blurrily opened his eyes, ignoring the pain in his skull and the ache radiating from his neck. Bright iridescent light temporarily blinded him, and he squeezed his eyes shut again. Voices sounded in the distance, and he willed himself to keep from moaning, least he get their attention. Finally, he managed to open his eyes at half-staff and was able to glance around.

The first thing he noticed was that he was lying on his back, left arm positioned straight up, with his right arm folded at the elbow and tucked near his chin. His dirty scarf was tied tightly around the wound on his neck, which was held in place by his right hand.

Sherlock slowly pulled himself to a sitting position. His dark hair was drenched and plastered to his head, and his clothes were damp and stiff with mud and dried blood. On the ground where he had laid down was a semicircle of crimson, where his blood had stained into the damp soil. He took a moment to look around and get his bearings.

Above him, algae-covered beams formed a roof maybe thirty centimeters over his head. Near his feet, a scattering of broken bottles, crunched beer cans, discarded rags, half-burnt cigarette butts, and other items were embedded in the mud, discarded.

Strangely enough, he felt an odd kinship to the discarded and broken flotsam in which he found himself. Was he not also damaged and forgotten? Isn't this where he ultimately belonged, amongst the ruins and trash of London?

_Enough!_ Sherlock thought angrily. Regardless of where he belonged and didn't belong, he still had a game with Moriarty to finish!

_So how did I get here, anyway?_

Sherlock took several short breaths, reminding himself to remain calm. As he did so, the events of last night's exploits came back to him. His realization that Pyramid Storage was the probable location of Moriarty's liar. His decision to seek him out, when he spied the Satanic Slasher. The terrible moment when he realized Mary Morstan, John's fiancée, was the next intended victim. His rescue attempt and the disastrous consequences that followed. His blind race to the docks, ducking behind buildings and steel storage containers. The distant wail of sirens in the background…

Grimacing, Sherlock carefully draped the coat over his shoulders and edged to the water again, avoiding the flotsam of debris to avoid cutting himself. He peered out and saw that the sun was blazing outside, although it seemed to be setting in the western sky.

_It wasn't even past midnight when I ran away from the Yard. Have I been asleep that long?_

"Sheri." Sherlock whispered.

His daughter has been alone all this time! She must be in a right state by now! No doubt she was scared for him.

He could only hope she had the sense to stay put at the hotel.

Sherlock frowned, biting his lip. Above him, various footsteps pounded the dock above his head as dozens of sailors went about their daily business of loading and unloading crates from various freighters and ships. Tugboat horns blared, mingling with the shrill cawing of the seagulls. Each new sound was like a stab into his skull, and he longed to return to the solitude and safety of the hotel.

But he was stuck here for the time being, and the noise did serve to hide his presence here.

_The last thing I need is some well-meaning idiots showing up down here!_ Sherlock thought sardonically. He could imagine some burly sailors dragging him out and taking him to the hospital, as well as the disastrous consequences that were sure to follow.

_I'm in enough danger as it is!_

Frustrated, Sherlock lay back down and curled himself into a ball, waiting for night to come so that he could leave his self-imposed prison and make his way back to Sheridan, before something happened to her.

* * *

As luck would have it, Sherlock didn't have to wait long for night to fall. The sky darkened quickly, and with it, the men above had called it a day and left. The horns grew silent. Even the seagulls had calmed down, so it was almost completely silent when Sherlock at last climbed up onto the deserted dock, cautiously glancing around at his surroundings.

In the dim light of the coming twilight, Sherlock first saw the towering steel cranes, silent and inactive, were perched like birds of prey over dilapidated wharves, while various freighters were anchored along the shore, waiting to disgorge both goods and workmen hidden deep within their bowls. Barbed wire fences guarded miscellaneous crates, bales, and bags, while imposing steel containers, stacked two to three rows high, gave the illusion of a maze.

There was no one in sight.

However, the moment he left the docks, he was bound to run into someone. As stupid as the majority of the population was, he rather doubted that even _Anderson_ could fail to notice the reddish-brown stains on the front of his coat, nor the blood-encrusted scarf around his neck.

Also, he was in no position to run. Hell, he could barely walk without looking like a drunkard. The probability of getting back to the hotel unseen was simply impossible at this point.

Obviously, he couldn't call John (as much as he wished to), and Mycroft was undoubtedly out of the question.

And he couldn't go back to the hotel like this! It was practically on the other side of London, and there would be no way he could get there unobserved.

There was only one person he had left to go to, then.

All he needed to do was get to a payphone.

* * *

Finding the money he needed to pay for the call was easy. Along with the discarded trash, Sherlock managed to procure some change that had fallen under the docks over the years. He was also able to find a phone booth just outside the chain linked fence surrounding the shipyard, which he was able to scale up despite his weakened and battered state.

Even so, his fingers shook as he dialed the number. He knew he was taking a big risk, as Moriarty had control of the CCTV system, but he was counting on Moriarty's attention to be elsewhere at the moment.

"Hello?" A female voice through the line.

Sherlock paused. "Is Nina Somoto there?"

"She just stepped out. She will be back in a minute." The young woman said. "May I take a message?"

Sherlock coughed, blood and saliva flecks covering his hand. "Tell her…Raven, needs her. Operation…Waterloo."

The girl on the other line gasped. "_Wait!_ Who is this?"

Another voice, male, was heard in the background. "What's going on? Who is it?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He needed help, and fast. It was a wonder he hadn't went into shock already.

"Skylar Peterson." _Wait, wrong name! He wasn't thinking clearly! That was Skylar's name before she changed it._ "Simmons…_please!_ Tell Nina that…_Raven_ is waiting for her. Tell her to go to the East…Docks…near Portobello and Greene."

Then the world went black, and Sherlock knew no more.

* * *

"_Skylar! Skylar! Shit! Ken, get some more water, will you?_"

Skylar blearily opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was gleaming silver points above her head, arranged in a circle, almost like a fairy ring.

"Law, what happened?"

"I don't know! Some guy called here, and next thing I know, Skylar passed out!"

_Passed out?_ Skylar thought, somewhat bemused. _Like "fainted?" If so, this was a first!_

Suddenly, Skylar's vision sharpened back into focus, and she observed she was on the floor in Nina's kitchen. The silver pointed from earlier was actually stainless steel pots and pans that Nina kept hanging from a hanging rack on the ceiling.

Nina's face suddenly appeared, her breath frantic and coming in short gasps. "_Sky!_ Are you alright? What happened?"

"It…was…_him._" Skylar mumbled, struggling to get herself up into a sitting position.

"What?" Law asked, looking annoyed and concerned at the same time. "_Who?_ Moriarty?"

"Not Moriarty. But…it can't be! He's _dead!"_ Skylar said faintly, then looked at Nina for confirmation. "_Right?_"

It didn't take long for Nina to piece together what happened. Her sculpted face became as snow, and she pursed her lips together in thought. "Did someone calling himself 'Raven' call here, asking for me?"

"_Yes!_" Skylar shouted. Now that some of her shock had worn off, she was starting to become furious. "A man named 'Raven' who just _happened_ to know my name…"

"Well, you are a celebrity of sorts, Sky!" Kenneth pointed out, handing her a cup of water while Lawrence helped her to a sitting position so that she wouldn't choke on it. Skylar took a small sip, looking back at Nina accusingly.

"Did he say where he was?" Nina asked, shifting from side to side.

"Near the East Docks, by Portobello and Greene! He also said 'Code Waterloo.'" Skylar said angrily.

Nina, normally emotionless, actually took a step back, her face lined with terror. "He's only supposed to call me if there is an emergency! Did he sound ok?"

"He sounded like he had trouble breathing!" Skylar told her, although her rage lessened slightly.

"_Oi!_" Lawrence finally shouted. "What the bloody hell are you two talking about? And what's with this talk about the Raven? What the fuck is going on?"

"I don't have much time to explain!" Nina said tersely, rummaging through her purse. "I just need to go find him, before Moriarty does!"

"_WHO?_" Kenneth yelled.

_ "None of your damned business!_" Nina yelled, finally finding the keys to her car. "Look, I'm really sorry about all of this! I really am, but I can't involve any of you!"

"Nina!" Skylar said, sitting up straighter. "I _know_ who you are going to go see!"

"Somehow, I doubt that!" Nina spat back. "Now I've got to go!"

"The man on the phone! That was _Sherlock_, wasn't it?"

Nina's face became a plethora of emotions. Anger, shock, fear, denial…before she finally steeled herself. "I have no idea what you are talking about!"

"Then let me see if I can spell it out for you!" Skylar said, standing up and leaning against the kitchen table for support. Meanwhile, Lawrence and Kenneth watch the exchange with their mouths hung over, looking like fish in an aquarium. "The man on the other line knew who I was! He called me _Skylar Peterson!"_

"Were you _married_ before?" Kenneth asked incredulously.

Skylar shook her head impatiently. "My father was abusive to me, which was one of the reasons I ran away to live on the street. Sherlock helped hide from him, and then used his brother's connections to help me to get my name changed legally so I wouldn't be tracked down. Finally, when it was apparent my father wouldn't stop harassing me, Sherlock ensured that my father went to prison for a long time!"

Skylar crossed her arms in front of her chest and gave Nina a calculating look. "Only a few people know about that! Myself! My father! Mycroft! And _Sherlock!_"

Nina glared at Skylar. She realized now that her attempts at denial would be futile at this point. "_Fine!_ Then you can understand that I owe the man a lot too! I'm sorry if that means I can't stay to make dinner for us all tonight, but that's too bad!"

"So Sherlock _is_ alive!" Skylar said triumphantly.

Nina frowned unhappily. "I can't go into detail right now, but Mr. Holmes faked his death and has been working to take down Moriarty's web! That's why I'm involved! Because of him, my parents' killers were brought to justice!" Nina explained.

Skylar's light brown eyes lit up in understanding. "The Black Lotus."

Nina nodded before she turned around and glared at Lawrence and Kenneth. "And now he's here! Trying to finish what he started! But if you guys are going to run off and tell everyone, then you will sign John Watson, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson's death warrants!"

"What are you talking about?" Kenneth squeaked.

"As long as Moriarty has control of the CCTV system, then no one can know that Sherlock is alive! Now, there is a safe house near his location! I'll take him there!"

Lawrence looked uneasily at Kenneth, who shrugged his shoulders. Then he looked back at Skylar. "What do you think, Sky?"

Skylar furrowed her forehead in thought. "I rather call Mycroft, in case this is a trap. But if it is not, and Sherlock _is_ alive, then all hell will break loose!"

"He said 'Waterloo.' That's our code for when he's in need of aid! So it's no trap!" Nina pointed out.

Kenneth looked up, hazel eyes bright. "Why don't Lawrence and I take our car and follow behind. If it is a trap, then we will be nearby to help! And if it isn't, and this guy really is Sherlock Holmes, then Lawrence has some basic medical training, and he can help us determine whether to take him to the hospital or not!"

"I can't let you get involved!" Nina protested.

"We _are_ involved!" Kenneth shot back. "Either we go with you, or we call the Yarders! Which is it?"

Nina fumed as she stood there, clinching and unclenching her fists, but she stayed silent.

"Nina." Skylar spoke up. "_Please,_ let us go with you! If it is Sherlock, then we can help!"

"I got medical training, don't forget!" Lawrence pointed out.

"That's not a bad idea." Nina said, conceding the fact. "Also, you guys can bring him back to a safe house we have set up, while I go to his hotel room. I know where it is, and I need to retrieve something from there."

"But what is at his hotel that is so important? Evidence against Moriarty?" Kenneth asked.

Nina gritted her teeth. "_No!_"

"Is Ms. Morray there? She will probably need to know…"Skylar speculated.

Nina shook her head, sending her dark hair flying. "It's Ms. Morray's daughter! She's staying there, too!"

The other three Sherlockians stared at Nina for a moment, as though she had grown a second head.

"Ms. Morray has a daughter? Why would Ms. Morray's daughter be with Mr. Holmes?" Lawrence finally asked.

"I'll explain later!" Nina yelled. She threw on her coat as she practically spat out these words. "I promise I will tell you everything I am allowed to, but only after we go pick him up! Now, let's get going!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, the Slasher is dead! Oscar Dzundza, a.k.a. the Golem, whom Sherlock and John had met in the past. I'm sure most of you probably figured it out long before this chapter. Seriously, how many scary, seven-foot people can there be?

Also, we learned that Nina Somoto is Sherlock's contact in London. With Chase having all the fun, I thought it only fair to bring the other Sherlockians back into the action. Who knows? They may be useful!

Meanwhile, looks like Sherlock still has some unresolved issues with the Yard. As much as he pretends to, I think he still was unhappy with the fact that they were so eager to arrest him during the "Reichenbach Fall" episode, and I think I portrayed it realistically here.

Too bad he didn't stick around! He may have been pleasantly surprised by Donovan's reaction!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock! Obviously!

**OC Chase Douglas**-You know, I was surprised at the Slasher's identity! Wow! My forum's codename for him turned out to be completely off the mark!

**Peaceful Defender**-Really? What was your codename for the Slasher?

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Big Bird!_

**Peaceful Defender** (looks at Mycroft)-Is he serious?

**Mycroft Holmes**-Regretfully.

**Peaceful Defender**-By the way, don't you two have something better to do than to bug me? I mean, I'm tired! I'm cranky! And I had to deal with Moriarty earlier!

**Mycroft Holmes**-Ah, yes! Moriarty! Ever since his sister has reappeared, he has been descending into the lowest depths of insanity.

**OC Chase Douglas**-Yeah! Now he's parading around in Victoria Secret underwear! Go figure!

**Peaceful Defender**-Wait! How did you know that?

**OC Chase Douglas**-I've been monitoring communications amonst the various criminal and terrorist organizations. They've been talking!

**Peaceful Defender**-You know, I almost feel sorry for Moriarty! _Almost! _Ha ha!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Hey, DMP! Can I hold your umbrella?

**Mycroft Holmes**-_No!_

**OC Chase Douglas**-Why not?

**Mycroft Holmes**-Because it is a valuable keepsake, and the last person to touch it without my expressed permission ended up sitting in a jail cell in Germany. He would still be there, if the powers that be didn't see fit to release him.

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Huh?_

**Peaceful Defender**-Roughly translated, the last person to touch Mycroft's umbrella was Sherlock. He stole it and ran off to Germany with it, where he was apprehended. Mycroft would have left him there, but the powers that be, or "Mummy," intervened.

**OC Chase Douglas** (grinning)-Your brother stole your _umbrella!_ And you had him _arrested_ for it!

**Mycroft Holmes**-He was being childish, and I was merely showing him the error of his actions!

**OC Chase Douglas**-That is _awesome_, DMP! I bet you and your brother played a lot of tricks on each other! Before he died, of course! I bet you miss that!

**Peaceful Defender**-(speaks quietly in order to address her readers) Uh…this is _awkward!_ Reviews please, so eventually I don't have to keep Mycroft in the dark for much longer! It's _killing_ me!


	16. Chapter 15

**Warning: Sherlock a bit OOC. Also, my guest for commentary is definitely not the life of the party!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: We Believe**

"Faith and doubt both are needed - not as antagonists, but working side by side to take us around the unknown curve." Lillian Smith

* * *

Sherlock blinked once as the black fog rolled away, giving him his sight back.

_I passed out! Again! _

_Bloody hell, this is becoming tedious! Damn my transport!_

Pushing aside his frustration, Sherlock took a moment to take stock of his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was leaning against the glass wall of a phone booth near the docks, far away from any CCTV surveillance. He remembered his frantic call to his contact, Nina Somoto, only for Skylar to answer instead. He remembered sinking to his knees as the effects of acute blood loss still plagued him, regardless of the pressure he kept on his wounds.

But he wasn't in the phone booth now. He had been moved to a different location.

He was lying on an old brown sofa, inside a small room. His blue coat was gone, as was his ruined, blood-soaked shirt. Instead, he was wearing a pullover that was a few sizes too big for him_._ Someone had draped a red duvet over him as well. There were several pillows under his feet, no doubt to keep them elevated to guard against the risk of shock.

The room was dark, illuminated only by several candles situated throughout the room. The room was sparse by nature, with only functional, hand-me-down furniture he had gathered himself over the years.

He recognized it, of course. It was a room located at one of his safe houses.

Wincing, he reached up to feel around his neck.

He felt gauze bandages wrapped tightly around his neck, and under his fingertips, he felt the tell-tale grooves and dips which told him that someone with medical training had stitched up the cut on his neck. His hands had also been carefully cleaned and wrapped up.

Nina was a very capable woman. She was dedicated to the cause, and was not afraid to take measures others would shrink from. If she had found him, she would have probably tried to stitch up his wounds herself.

However, the even pattern of the stitches on his neck told him that someone other than Ms. Somoto had treated his injuries. Someone who has had at least some medical training.

_Surely she didn't risk John's life and brought him here? _

Sherlock was suddenly overcome with emotions, and he struggled to remain lying where he was, as opposed to jumping up off the sofa.

On one hand, he wanted to see John again. His blue eyes looking down at him as he irritably orders Sherlock to take it easy. The soldier with a heart so big that it helped Sherlock find his own. The man who befriended someone like him, a freak and an outsider. Who put up with him. Who encouraged him to be better.

But that was the John of the past. The John he jumped off a building to save.

What would John be like _now?_

Would John be disgusted with Sherlock? Would he _hate_ him? Even though the deception was necessary, would John despise Sherlock to the point that he would order him out of his life forever?

_That would probably kill him more painfully than Moriarty ever could._

"So, let me get this straight! You didn't know Sherlock was alive until a few months ago?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. _He knew that voice. _

It belonged to Skylar Simmons. One of his original members of the Homeless Network. He recalled how he had let slip her the fact that he knew her real last name over the phone, and he inwardly castigated himself how his blunder.

_Maybe Father was right about me! Maybe I am a mistake!_

"I know you don't believe me Sky, but it's true! After my uncle explained everything to me, I was recruited to be Sherlock's contact here."

"So you _spied_ on us!" Cut in a male voice.

Sherlock felt both relief and disappointment course through him. That was not John's voice. The owner was significantly younger, for one, and his voice had a distinct Manchester accent to it, which John lacked.

Nina hissed in exasperation. "I did not _spy_ on you, Lawrence! I was just supposed to report how the situation was progressing here! Which members of Moriarty's web were apprehended here, whether or not everyone believed that Ms. Morray was still alive, that kind of thing!"

"Sounds like _spying_ to me!" Another male voice spoke up.

"Well, _excuse me_ for not caring what you think, Kenneth! I made a promise, and I kept it, at least until tonight! If Sky hadn't figured it out, then none of you would be involved right now!"

"We _helped_ you, remember?" Skylar reminded her.

"If you recall, I didn't ask for your help! You threatened to call the Yard if I didn't allow you to come!" Nina defended.

"And I supposed you would have stitched him up yourself?" The young man known as Lawrence quipped.

"I would have thought of something!" Nina protested angrily. "And I'm sorry I cannot tell you everything, Sky! You just have to trust me on this!"

"_Trust you?_ Nina, there is a _dead man_ with multiple stab wounds on the couch over there! On your insistence, we don't call the hospital and do what we can for him here." Skylar persisted. "Then we find out that someone who matches his description actually killed the _Slasher_ last night, and the police are looking for him!"

"How wonderful for you! Maybe you can all split the reward for my capture!" Sherlock said softly. This bickering was starting to grate his nerves, and he decided now was as good as time as any to show his hosts that he was conscious.

"_Hey!_ He's awake!" The man named Kenneth said, quite unnecessarily.

"A most enlightened deduction!" Sherlock groaned. As he could not see the speakers, he struggled to sit up on the couch, only to find that someone was gently but firmly holding him down by the shoulders.

The young man known as Lawrence looked at Sherlock with concern as he used his hands to settle the injured man back onto the couch. "Take it easy, mate." Lawrence said soothingly. "How's your neck?"

"I'll live." Sherlock grunted.

Lawrence smirked. "Good! I hope I stitched it up right. But I'm not a doctor, as I'm sure you know…"

"It's fine. Don't worry about it." Sherlock said curtly. "I'll be sure to tell your instructors that you have perfected the art of stitching one's wounds back together. It is fortunate for me that you paid attention in medical school."

Lawrence smirked. "It's still my first year. I'll probably get into trouble, for working on a live patient without supervision!"

"Regardless, you did an adequate job." Sherlock said, hoping to put any fears about not taking him to a hospital to rest. "I'm fine."

Lawrence nodded.

"_Sooo._" Kenneth said, walking up behind Lawrence to get a better view of the unexpected visitor and trying to figure out which question he wanted to ask first. "You really are _him_, right? Sherlock Holmes, I mean?"

"Yes. Although I prefer that my presence is not announced to the world at this time." Sherlock shot back, with slight disdain in his measured tone.

"Ok, ok! _Damn!_ Has anyone told you that you are a smidge anti-social?" Kenneth asked.

"Every day of my life." Sherlock replied stoically, sitting up. This time, Lawrence didn't stop him.

"Just checking!" Kenneth said neutrally.

"Ken, can you get a glass of water for Mr. Holmes?" Lawrence said, looking at his friend.

_No, brother._ Sherlock corrected himself mentally. The two men had identical hazel eyes and noses, although Lawrence had short black hair, while his brother had his lighter shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail near his neck.

Kenneth nodded and walked over to a cooler and got out a bottle of water, which he handed to Sherlock, who took it from him and sipped it slowly, relishing the sooth coolness of the liquid as it slid down his throat, washing the metallic after-taste of blood out of his mouth.

This particular safe house was a flat that Sherlock had kept over the years. It belonged to a former client of his who was so grateful for his help in a case that she left it to him in her will. He paid for its upkeep, and it served as a hideout occasionally. But because he spent so little time here, the relics of his former client still lingered.

The former client was an old lady, and her outdated floral wallpaper still clung to the walls, although it was faded and was beginning to peel in one corner…

_Bloody hell!_ Everywhere he looked, he couldn't help but be reminded of the friends he had left behind eighteen months ago. The safe house brought memories of Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, with her knitting and her herbal soothers for her hip. The smell of antiseptic reminded him of John, his flat mate and friend.

Even seeing Lawrence and Kenneth reminded him of his earlier relationship with Mycroft, when he still looked up to his brother. A deep longing filled him, and her quickly suppressed these memories and put them back in his memory palace so that they would not interfere with his thought processes.

Suddenly, another person came into view. Someone familiar.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. It's good to see you again."

Sherlock relaxed slightly. "And you as well, Ms. Simmons. I see that you are still engaged in your studies"

"Which you no doubt deduced from the ink smudges on my hand from where I have been working on my thesis." Skylar said sardonically. "But except for the fact that we brought you here, plus what we have managed to drag out of Nina, I am afraid that I don't know anything about what _you_ have been doing with your time!"

Sherlock sighed. "I _did not_ kill the Slasher! At least, not on purpose! I needed him alive, because he had information about Moriarty's current whereabouts!"

"Personally, you could have skinned the man alive and leave his body out to dry, for all I care." Nina muttered from a vantage point off to Sherlock's left. "Anyone who does what he did deserves death, a thousand times over!"

"_Nina!_" Kenneth gasped.

Nina stood up from wherever she was and walked over to the others, so that Sherlock could see her clearly. "_What?_ You saw the news! He saved Mary's life! Besides, the Slasher killed many innocent people! People with _families!_ If we contact the authorities, they will just mess things up! Remember what they did to Sherlock the last time?"

"Nina, we are all on the same side now!" Skylar protested. "We are all supposed to be working together to bring down Moriarty's empire."

Sherlock grinned humorlessly. "The Yard will listen. After they cuff me and haul me away to the nearest cell!"

"_See!_" Nina said triumphantly.

"Eventually, they would listen to me." Sherlock amended. "But there is a traitor in the Yard. One of Moriarty's men. If I reveal myself, then he will kill Lestrade."

"Maybe we could bring Lestrade here, on his own, without telling him why…" Kenneth argued.

"It's still too much of a risk." Sherlock replied firmly. "And the assassin is not afraid to kill. He already killed the former Superintendent…"

"You're kidding!" Lawrence breathed.

"Yes, I am. As you know, I am well-known for my sense of humor, as well as my love to waste time with trivialities!" Sherlock said sarcastically.

Lawrence frowned at that remark while the others chuckled.

"Now, does anyone else wish to sound like Anderson?" Sherlock looked around at the others. "_No?_ Good! So we agree that we can't afford to take any chances!"

"So what do we do?" Skylar asked.

"I don't know." Sherlock admitted.

Well, that wasn't exactly true. He _did_ know what they needed to do.

"How long have I been here?" Sherlock asked, addressing his question to no one in particular.

"About six hours. We brought you here, and Lawrence took care of your wounds. Otherwise, we _would_ have called for an ambulance!" Kenneth admitted shame-facedly.

"You have to understand, I'm not a doctor!" Lawrence repeated, still worried. "I stitched you up the best I could, but you still lost some blood, which is why you are a little weak at the moment. I still think you need to go to a real doctor as soon as possible."

Sherlock nodded, although secretly he had no intention of going to a hospital.

A new thought occurred to him.

Where was Sheridan? Did Nina go and get her? Was she sleeping in the spare bedroom located in this flat?

He turned to Nina. "Did you go to my hotel?"

Nina walked across the room and crouched in front of Sherlock. "Yes. I got all your belongings. But the little girl that accompanied you was gone!"

"_Sheridan?_" Sherlock gasped. He jumped up, and then fell back on the couch as the room began to swim.

"Hey! Stay down and rest a moment!" Lawrence cautioned.

"This is too important!" Sherlock yelled. He looked back at Nina. "Tell me exactly what you saw! Was the room in disarray? Was there signs of a struggle?"

Nina looked defeated. It was obvious she dreaded telling Sherlock this news. "The room was undisturbed. Her bag is missing, too. I think she left on her own, though. I asked around, and the doorman recalled that a little girl with blonde hair left the hotel a few hours ago." Nina related, her almond eyes narrowed with concern.

Sherlock frowned. "Did you see a skull in the flat anywhere?"

"A _skull_?" Nina asked. She closed her eyes as she concentrated, and then shook her head. "No! There was no skull! Why?"

"If Sheridan was kidnapped, then she wouldn't have had time to take Abby with her. Thus, she must have left the hotel on her own free will." Sherlock surmised, still looking flustered by this unexpected turn of events, and yet feeling slightly relieved.

"_Abby?"_ Skylar asked.

Sherlock sighed. "That's the name of her skull."

Skylar cocked her head and eyed Sherlock, as though she was looking at him for the very first time, but Sherlock barely noticed. He was too busy contemplating Sheridan's absence from the hotel and berating himself for not dropping her off at the Diogenes Club sooner.

At least she wasn't captured by Moriarty's men.

Still, he needed to find her!

She was out on the streets somewhere. _Alone._ While she tended to be braver than most children her age, she was still just a girl.

But he was not in good shape at the moment. He couldn't even stand!

_So what should he do?_

He did not know the other two Sherlockians well enough to judge whether they could be trusted. He had known Skylar for years, however, and she was rather talented with finding hidden strengths in people and making them work toward a greater goal.

She was also incredibly loyal to him, even after she left the Network.

Nevertheless, Sheridan was alone. On the streets. With vehicles that could hit her, drug dens and its assortment of callous users and abusers, child predators…

"Mr. Holmes! _Mr. Holmes!_ Are you alright?"

Sherlock looked around dazedly. All the Sherlockians were standing up, with identical expressions of panic.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock replied shortly. _When did the air disappear from the room, anyway?_

"Are you sure? You're shaking like a leaf!" Kenneth protested.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock repeated, this time with a calm, measured tone.

_Panic would do no good at this point. He needed to think through this logically, if he was ever going to find Sheri._

"Who is _Sheridan?_" Lawrence asked.

"She's Moriarty's niece." Sherlock replied bluntly. He shuddered, and made a conscious effort to slow his breathing.

_Bloody hell, if he hyperventilated and passed out, then they would take him to the hospital!_

"And Danielle Morray's daughter." Skylar stated flatly, watching Sherlock closely.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes! I take it that you _all_ know about Danielle Morray."

"She is trying to take down Moriarty. Or, at least, that is what we believe. But Nina here won't tell us. She keeps saying that she needs your permission first." Kenneth muttered. "So, you know Ms. Morray, then?"

"I did, many years ago." Sherlock said absently, shrugging the subject off. "She lived as a homeless person in London. She was hiding from her brother at the time."

"So you _do_ know Danielle Morray!" Lawrence said, his eyes wide with the revelation. "And, what? Are you guys working together to capture Moriarty? That's brilliant!"

"Ms. Morray is dead." Sherlock said softly. "She has been dead for over a year now."

Sherlock's pronouncement was met with firm disbelief.

"But how is that _possible?_" Lawrence said. "_She_ is the one going after Moriarty!"

Nina smirked. "That's what we _wanted_ Moriarty to believe! To protect everyone!"

"So it is _you_, and not Ms. Morray, who has been going after Moriarty!" Kenneth realized. "_You_ are the _Raven!"_

Sherlock nodded again.

"But how did you do it?" Skylar whispered in awe.

Nina sighed in annoyance. _Why were they bombarding the consulting detective with these pointless questions?_ "Danielle Morray had a network of her own! She found out Mr. Holmes was still alive and wanted to help him destroy Moriarty, because of the risks he poses to all of us! When she died, all the members were given final instructions to assist Mr. Holmes in his mission. Between their help and the assistance of _Chimera_, we have succeeded in bringing Moriarty's empire down to only a few members!"

"_So you knew all this time?_" Lawrence exclaimed.

Nina shook her head. "When I first joined the Sherlockians, I believed that Mr. Holmes was dead too! I already told you this! I didn't learn the truth until a few months ago!"

"But _how_ did you get caught up in this? You still haven't really explained that part!" Lawrence pointed out snidely.

"Nina's uncle, her father's brother, was targeted by Moriarty. The Black Lotus, at Moriarty's behest, tried to have him killed, but they made a mistake. They targeted the wrong brother." Sherlock explained, fighting a wave of dizziness as he leaned back against the couch.

"They were identical twins." Nina said quietly, taking up the story. "They thought they were going after the right one…"

"I'm sorry, Nina." Skylar whispered sympathetically.

Nina nodded solemnly, her face stern as she succeeded in suppressing her grief. "My uncle was saved when Ms. Morray helped him fake his death and gave him a new identity. He was one of Mr. Holmes's contacts when they dismantled the Black Lotus last year."

"So how did you find all of this out?" Kenneth asked.

"A few months ago, around the time when the Slasher showed up, my uncle came to visit me." Nina confessed. "He told me the truth, and asked me to act as Sherlock's contact in England. So I kept my eyes and ears open. Some things I learned from Skylar, but my biggest source of information was Chase."

Skylar smirked. "So _that's_ why you take him to Starbucks twice a month! I always wondered why, since Chase seemed to annoy you so much!"

Nina shrugged. "Chase gets talkative once you get him some caffeine."

"Smart move!" Skylar admitted grudgingly.

Kenneth shook his head in amazement. He looked back at Sherlock. "All this time, and I thought you were _dead!_"

"Death is dull. I couldn't abide it for long." Sherlock said as he gripped his throat. "As you all were responsible for leaking the true events to the world, you no doubt know _why_ I jumped! What nobody else knows is that I faked my death."

"Does _Mycroft_ know?" Kenneth asked.

Lawrence snorted. "If Mycroft knew, then Sherlock here would have had commandos come and pick him up! Not us!"

"Good point." Kenneth allowed sheepishly. "I forgot! Sorry!"

Lawrence elbowed his brother in the ribs, but the gesture suggested playfulness. "Seriously, do you think the DMP would trust us with his brother?"

"_DMP?_ Oh! You mean Mycroft!" Sherlock realized.

Kenneth chuckled. "How did you know about that? Did Nina tell you that Chase refers to your brother as a 'Demented Mary Poppins?'?" Kenneth asked.

Sherlock smirked. "A hacker in my employee, _Chimera_, sometimes monitors the Fan Fiction website that Mr. Douglas is a part of."

"So the _Chimera_ is helping you. We were right about that part!" Kenneth asked.

"Yes." Sherlock allowed.

He hadn't told anyone, not even Nina, that Sheridan was actually _Chimera_. It was one of the few secrets known only to himself, Sheridan, and Dani, before she died.

"Well, what do we do first, Mr. Holmes? What's the plan?" Nina asked, leaning forward, her tone all business.

"Nina, what are you _saying?_" Lawrence said. "We need to contact Chase, get Mr. Holmes over here, or something!"

"Mycroft can't know about this!" Sherlock said coldly, brokering no argument. "No one can!"

Skylar nodded understandingly as her brown eyes lit up. "The CCTV system. _Of course!_" She turned to Lawrence and Kenneth. "He's right! We can't call Mycroft yet, or Moriarty will know! Moriarty has control of the CCTV system. If Mr. Holmes comes here, Moriarty is bound to take notice…"

Kenneth frowned. He turned back to Sherlock. "What about the others? Does _John _know?"

The silence was deafening. Sherlock turned away from Kenneth's question, as though he thought that if he ignored it long enough, everyone would forget it was asked.

"That's pretty low, mate!" Lawrence observed.

"I did what I had to do to keep them safe!" Sherlock snapped. "And I would do it again, if it meant they stayed alive! Moriarty has his employees everywhere, even in the government! If I revealed I survived, then Moriarty would have stopped at _nothing_ to finish what he started! It was the right decision, as well as the most logical course of action!"

"Still, mate, they could have played along…" Kenneth started to say.

"_John can't lie!_ He is too honorable for that, and he would have demanded that he come with me! Then he probably would have gotten himself killed!" Sherlock argued heatedly. "Even if I could have convinced him to stay, he would probably have tried to send me things, like clothes, or medicine, and thus alerted my enemies! And all because he would have been concerned about my health!"

Lawrence shrugged. "I guess he's right. If you had to fake your death, Ken, and I found out about it, I wouldn't rest until I found you."

Kenneth grinned and clapped his older brother on the shoulder. "Same here, Law!"

Sherlock felt a strange pang in his chest. When was the last time he and Mycroft trusted each other like that?

_And what was he feeling, anyway? Longing? Jealousy? Sadness? _

Scowling, Sherlock turned to Nina, pushing the uncomfortable emotions as far from him as possible. _They were too much of a liability right now._ "Can these other two be trusted?" He asked, nodding towards Lawrence and Kenneth.

"Yes." Nina explained, a smug smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "These two, along with Skylar and Chase Douglas, are part of the original group that was responsible for clearing your name. So they know how to operate with secrecy."

"Then that is what we need right now." Sherlock said, putting his fingers together as he often did when he was trying to figure out a difficult puzzle.

Skylar turned back to the "supposedly dead" detective. "So what happens now?"

Sherlock paused. "As much as I am loath to admit it, I need your help, Ms. Simmons. And your discretion."

"What can we do?" Skylar asked immediately.

"You saved Mary's life." Lawrence said softly, seeming to come to a decision. "It's only right that we return the favor." He turned to his younger brother. "What do you think, Ken?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure. I guess." Kenneth replied, looking at his brother confusedly. He looked at Sherlock again. "Although I am still not one hundred percent convinced you are Sherlock Holmes."

"Just one question. Why is Ms. Morray's child even here to begin with?" Lawrence asked, a perplexed expression plastered on his face.

"Not relevant." Sherlock muttered angrily.

Inwardly, he was furious with himself. His impulsive actions caused him to get injured, and lead to him being unable to make it back to the hotel in time, which cause Sheridan to abandon her safe haven to go search for him.

_But what kind of father was he that he would lose his daughter?_

As if _that_ wasn't bad enough, the Slasher was dead, and he was no closer to finding Moriarty!

_But at least Ms. Morstan got away..._

Sherlock jumped to his feet again in another furtive effort to regain his equilibrium, only to stumble backwards and fall back awkwardly on the sofa as a wave of dizziness gripped him.

"Stop that!" Lawrence ordered. "You lost a lot of blood, and you haven't recovered enough yet to go galvanizing all over London!"

"I have wasted enough time here as it is!" Sherlock answered through gritted teeth. "Sheridan is out there somewhere! If Moriarty finds her…"

"If _you_ go out there, you are liable to pass out and then someone _will _call the Yard! Then whoever is working for Moriarty could kidnap you and take you to Moriarty to torture you to find out what you know." Nina pointed out, her beautiful face lined with concern.

Sherlock fumed for a moment, then grunted. "It seems like I have few viable options available." Suddenly, he started coughing violently.

"You ok?" Lawrence asked, concerned. "Is your neck bothering you?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock gasped, unconsciously raising his hand to his throat. "Cut's not deep. Dzundza never had the chance to try again."

"Who's Dzundza?" Lawrence asked.

"Oscar Dzundza, also known as the _Golem_. He is the Satanic Slasher. Or he was, at least. I stopped him from making Ms. Morstan another victim, but he stabbed himself in the struggle. I myself only received minor cuts, mostly from my own carelessness! I was hoping to take him alive, so that he may divulge Moriarty's whereabouts, but it did not work out the way I planned!" Sherlock mumbled, looked thoroughly disgusted with himself.

"Oh, _bloody hell_, mate!" Kenneth exclaimed. "You just went toe-to-toe with the Satanic Slasher, the most brutal serial killer since _Jack the Bloody Ripper_, and all you can worry about is that you couldn't take him alive!"

"Moriarty's still out there!" Sherlock muttered darkly. "He's more dangerous than the Slasher could ever be!"

Nina nodded understandingly. "So what do you want us to do?"

Sherlock considered. As he was too weak to move at the present moment, perhaps the Sherlockians could be of some assistance. "Sheridan is lost somewhere in London. We need to locate her. The blonde hair that you saw in the park is actually a wig, Ms. Somoto. To disguise her appearance. But in reality, she has dark curly hair and bluish-gray eyes. She is likely wearing a black leather jacket and a purple scarf. If you see her, tell her that you were sent by the Raven. She will ask you for a code word to prove it. It's _'Ophelia._' Once she hears that, she will come with you willingly."

"Then we will help you." Lawrence replied, his features stony as he made his decision. "We will find her, or tell you where she is. And we will do it without anyone else knowing what we are up to!"

"Uh, Law? What are you saying?" Kenneth said.

"We find the girl and bring her back here! And Mr. Holmes will hide out from the Yard and Moriarty until we decide what to do next!" Lawrence said decisively.

"There _is_ one more thing." Sherlock replied, a sudden thought occurring to him. "I need to get something from Paddington Station. It's in a locker there. I have the key."

"_I _can do that!" Nina replied.

Nodding his ascent, Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a small brass key, which he handed to Nina.

"I'll stay here and watch over Mr. Holmes till you get back." Skylar volunteered.

"I will be fine on my own. My injuries are not serious!" Sherlock complained.

Skylar rolled her chestnut eyes in disbelief. "Remember that I used to be part of the Homeless Network, Mr. Holmes! The minute you are alone, you plan to sneak out and search for the girl yourself!"

Sherlock groaned in frustration. Actually, that was _exactly_ what he was planning to do!

Lawrence nodded in agreement. "Skylar's right! You need to stay here. Now, do you have any idea where she would go?"

Sherlock nodded. "Knowing her, she will probably try to contact Mycroft. I told her she may have to go to the Diogenes Club, but I neglected to give her directions on how to get there."

"Lawrence and Kenneth can gather the Homeless Network and tell them to be on the lookout. They will do it if they know the Sherlockians are looking for the girl too, and they won't bother asking any questions." Skylar said.

"Sounds good to me! We will be back in a few hours, unless we find her." Kenneth declared. He grabbed his coat, which was draped over a nearby armchair, and looked back at Sherlock. "You said it was a girl with curly black hair, blue-gray eyes, right? And her name is Sheridan."

"Correct." Sherlock muttered. Despite his attempt to keep his voice even, he could not disguise the worry he felt. "Just find her before Moriarty does!"

* * *

Sherlock lowered himself back on the make-shift bed on the couch after the others left the flat to begin the search, leaving Sherlock alone with Skylar. He sighed in irritation as a shot of pain went through his neck.

_He hoped that it didn't get infected!_

"So Ms. Morray has a daughter?" Skylar ventured her weak attempt at making conversation.

"Yes." Sherlock grunted.

"I see." Skylar said, looking pensive. "Dark, curly hair. Blue-gray eyes. Sounds like someone I know! In fact, she sounds like she looks like you! Not to mention that she keeps a skull, when most girls like to keep dolls…"

"_Don't start."_ Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

Skylar stared at Sherlock for a moment, her brown eyes narrowed as she studied him. "_Well?_ Is she _your_ daughter?"

Sherlock closed his eyes in defeat before giving a quick, tight nod.

_Leave it to Skylar to figure it out!_

Skylar nodded, thoughtful. "That makes sense, I guess. The last time I saw you panic like this was when John got stabbed by that mugger…"

"What does _that_ have to do with anything?" Sherlock challenged, his voice dangerously soft.

Skylar shrugged. "When John was hurt, you started shaking, and you were screaming orders to the ambulance crew. After they drove off, you couldn't breathe well, and you almost lost it!"

"I was not panicking!" Sherlock protested loudly, then winced as a shot of pain went through his damaged throat.

"John is like a brother to you. He's family. If I was in your place that night, it would have responded the same way. And this little girl is family, too. That's why you are…_concerned _right now." Skylar responded kindly, taking great care with her words.

"She's a child. What does she know about the dangers that exist in London?" Sherlock said, looking dejected.

Skylar smirked knowingly. "I wouldn't worry too much!" She said comfortingly. "If the girl is anything like you, then she is smart enough to survive until the Sherlockians find her!"

"Who says I'm worried?" Sherlock said, his impassive facade back in place.

"You don't have to say it." Skylar said.

Outside, the faint rings of Big Ben announced to all of London that it was now midnight. November third.

Sherlock fought an inner battle to keep his impatience in check. As if it wasn't bad enough that his daughter was out there, now he had to worry about Moriarty too!

_I'm running out of time… _

"I am glad you are alive, Mr. Holmes. You have been greatly missed." Skylar suddenly said, looking back at her former employer.

Sherlock shook his head. "I doubt that."

Skylar looked down at the floor, as though she was embarrassed. "You haven't seen what effect your passing had on others, Mr. Holmes! _I_ have! I was with John, when he saw the video. The one that showed what really happened."

Sherlock froze, his breath caught in his throat. "How did he take it?" He finally asked.

Skylar regarded Sherlock sadly. "How would _you_ feel if you found out your best friend committed suicide to save you? He cried. He was almost catatonic, for a few days, according to Mary."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

Skylar felt conflicted. Not for releasing the tape, obviously. It had to be done, after all. What she regretted was the way it played out. Now she wished she showed the tape to Sherlock's closest friends and family before going to the press. "I'm sorry for what happened."

Sherlock shrugged as he lay back onto the couch. Why was Skylar apologizing? _She _wasn't the one to fake her death! "I underestimated the fact that some people, like you, would not believe information just because it appeared in the papers! It has always been my experience that most people are gullible. They never want to search for information on their own, and just blindly believe what they read."

Skylar smiled. "Some people, yes! But you taught me to gather data first and not jump to conclusions!"

Sherlock glanced back at Skylar. "It is true that you had the advantage of my tutorage, Ms. Simmons. But why did so many get involved?"

"Because we believe in Sherlock Holmes." Skylar said simply. She felt that an explanation was not needed.

Sherlock furrowed his forehead, considering. Perfect strangers had come to London, ready to march and show support for him.

It was…gratifying, of course. To learn that there were still people out there who had the ability to reason things out on their own.

_But it meant nothing if those he cared about didn't forgive him, or died because he failed to deal with Moriarty._

Skylar seemed to ignore the consulting detective's discomfiture. "You should get some rest. Gather your strength. In a few hours, we can both go and look for your daughter."

"Very well." Sherlock allowed. He closed his eyes as Skylar covered him back up with the duvet, but he knew it would be a vain attempt to get any sleep tonight. He had too much on his mind. In a few minutes, when Skylar's back was turned, he would try to get up again and sneak out.

_Where was Moriarty? What was he planning now? _

_Was John still safe? How about Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade?_

_ And where was Sheri?_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Ok, not much going on in this chapter. Just a bunch of self-reflection and angst. Hopefully, the action will pick up again in the next chapter.

Well, now we know why Sherlock was looking forward to the Yarders being introduced to "Abby."

_What?_ What's wrong with Sherlock's kid having a skull? Besides, can you imagine the look on Lestrade's face when he finds out? Or Mycroft's? Or Donovan's?

Or _Anderson's?_

Oh, I am _soooo_ mean, aren't I?

Alas, we may never find out. Sheridan is missing somewhere in the vast urban maze that is London. And she took Abby with her. So where is she? What is she up to? Is Moriarty looking for her? Where will she go?

We find out in the next chapter!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." But I do think that Sherlock's skull deserves more air time, so I plan to remedy that!

**Peaceful Defender** (looking at Sherlock's skull)-So, Sherlock's skull! What do you think about another skull in this story?

(Sherlock's skull says nothing).

**Peaceful Defende**r-By the way, do you even have a name? What does Sherlock call you? _Cranium?_ _Bone head? Skully?_ What?

(Sherlock's skull stays mute).

**Peaceful Defender**-Oh! You're a little shy, aren't you? You know, my reviewers are pretty nice. They treat all my other guests well! So don't be afraid to open up! Tell us more about yourself!

(Sherlock's skull ponders whether he need "to be, or not to be.")

**Peaceful Defender** (frowning)-Uh, _ok!_ Well, how do you feel about Sherlock leaving you behind? I mean, he is so busy worrying about John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade! He hasn't given _you_ a second thought, has he? Does that make you feel lonely?

(Sherlock's skull exercises his right to remain silent).

**Peaceful Defender** (sighing) What am I doing? I am talking to an inanimate object! I think I need to take a nap before this next chapter! What do you think?

(Sherlock's skull silently begs the readers out there for reviews, so Peaceful Defender will let him rest in peace!).

**Ok, dull chapter! And my guest is so...dead? **

**Although I still would like you to review this chapter, I am going to go ahead and post the next chapter, so we can see what's going on with Sheridan. You have been so great to me, you all deserve it anyway!**


	17. Chapter 16

**Warning: Slight violence, some "redneck" humor that should not be taken seriously, and rather poor decision-making from an eight-year old genius.**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen: Breaking and Entering**

"Grown-ups are complicated creatures, full of quirks and secrets." Roald Dahl

* * *

_November 3__rd__, eighteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

Cautiously, Sheridan walked up the flight of stairs towards the landing. It was very late in the evening. So late, in fact, that the moon had set, but the sun had not yet made an appearance over the horizon. The rest of the world seemed to be asleep, oblivious to the fact that Sheridan was still up and walking around.

In many ways, luck was on her side. It was cold enough that Sheridan's breath was like little clouds, and she had to wear her gloves, jacket, and beloved purple scarf to protect her from the worst of the chill.

But the cold also ensured that no one would be around. Had the young girl traveled in the daylight, looking upset, someone would have approached her and asked her if she was lost. Maybe even had called the Yard to report a wandering child without either of her parents present.

But Sheridan was her father's daughter in one important aspect. She could hide her emotions when she chose to, and she looked like she knew where she was going.

She _did_ know where she was going. Or, at least, she had a pretty good idea.

If it was up to Sheridan, she would be back at the hotel. In bed, maybe, where it was warm. And Dad would have returned by now. But here she was, wondering around the deserted streets of London, her father missing, and those Bad Men chasing her.

_Not_ the best situation for an eight year old girl to find herself in!

However, Sheridan was never one to sit around. She was not a little princess who waited around to be rescued. Her heroes have always been people who decided to take matters into their own hands. Eowyn of the "Lord of the Rings." Lucy from "The Chronicles of Narnia." Hermione from the "Harry Potter" books. Katniss from "The Hunger Games."

And then there were her real-life heroes. Mom, who always found a reason to smile, even when things seemed to be hopeless. Who helped Sheridan learn how to find the goodness in everything. Who had kept her safe from Moriarty, as well as save hundreds of people from Moriarty's wrath.

And Dad, who decided that saving his friends' lives were so important that he risked his own. Who kept her safe from Moriarty after Mom died. Who willing put himself on the line to destroy Moriarty, once and for all, with the same reckless abandon that Captain Jack Sparrow showed in the movies (although Dad was _far_ less silly than Captain Jack Sparrow, of course).

She may still be a child, but that didn't mean she was helpless.

* * *

With Dad missing, the obvious person to go to would be Uncle Mycroft. He had the necessary resources, and should she be forced to tell the _Secret_, Mycroft could be trusted not to tell on Dad, in exchange for her help in taking back control of the CCTV system.

However, she didn't know where the Diogenes Club was, nor was it in the phonebook or on GPS. If Dad's stories were to be believed, then the only way to find Uncle Mycroft would be to parade around the streets of London and hope he sends someone to come and kidnap you.

Sheridan knew that the statistical chances of _that_ plan to work were beyond the realm of possibility.

However, Sheridan deduced that maybe, _just maybe_, Uncle Mycroft could be reached through Uncle John. If anyone would be able to reach Mycroft, it would be John Watson. However, that would mean that she would either have to reveal herself to John (which would mean revealing the _Secret_) or take a sneak peak at the contact list on his cell phone without him knowing.

Sheridan decided to choose the latter plan.

Using the GPS device on Dad's phone, Sheridan found her way to her Dad's former home. Even so, it took her several hours to get here, and that was after traveling on the Tube and then darting through several back alleys and side streets to avoid being seen, taking advantage of the blind spots that she knew existed in the CCTV's coverage.

It had been almost a whole day and a half since she last saw Dad, which is the longest time that she had no direct contact with him, either by phone or email. He hadn't returned. She was beginning to worry. Dad would _never_ leave her on her own unless it was absolutely necessary.

Dad promised her that he would return for her, and he _always_ kept her promises.

So she waited. And waited. _And waited. _

But Dad didn't return.

And then, about seven o'clock last night, Sheridan went downstairs to the lobby, hoping to see if he had returned. While downstairs, she "_felt"_ that something was wrong, and then noticed two men that she knew were working for Moriarty. It was the man named Harper and the guy from the Yard, asking the desk clerk several questions.

On instinct, she went back upstairs and grabbed her emergency bag before quietly exiting the building. If the Bad Men were there, then either they knew about Dad and were trying to locate him, or they believed Mom was still alive and trying to trap her.

Either way, they were bound to find Sheridan, so it was best if she made herself scarce.

* * *

And now here she was, in her first act of breaking and entering.

Well, maybe not _breaking_. She _did_ have Dad's key, after all! So technically it wasn't breaking and entering. Just entering!

_And what were they going to do, throw her in jail for life?_

Scoffing at the idea, Sheridan quietly made her way up the wooden stairs, moving quickly to avoid detection and silently counting the number of steps up to 221 B. She had entered through the back door, knowing that the flat was likely under surveillance, but whether it was from Mycroft's men or Moriarty's men was something she didn't know. So she snuck into the flat, hoping that the late hour would benefit her as she crept up the stairs.

_Seventeen. _ _There are seventeen stairs to Dad's flat. I need to remember that!_

At the top of the landing, Sheridan paused for a moment in front of the wooden door. Setting her emergency bag to the floor, Sheridan stepped up to the door and retrieved the key her father gave her. It had already worked on the front door downstairs, so she knew it would work now. She slipped the key into the lock and heard a satisfying "click" before the door creaked open.

Silently, the girl stepped inside, taking care to close and lock the door behind her.

* * *

After setting down her bag, Sheridan took a moment to look around the room that she found herself in, which she deduced was the main sitting room.

In it were two armchairs on either side of a fireplace, as well as an old leather couch. The four walls were decorated with four different types of wallpaper. White paper imprinted with a black pattern, red paper with a gold pattern, and two others that she had a hard time seeing in the dark. And on one of the walls, there were several bullet holes in the wall, which someone painted over into the shape of a smiling face with yellow paint.

The room was clean, of course. _Very clean_, probably from the combined efforts of John and Ms. Hudson, the landlady that Dad is so fond of, even though he never actually said that he was. But Sheridan could tell.

_Too bad she was out of town._ Sheridan reflected forlornly.

But after this was all over, Sheridan might still get a chance to meet her.

Consoling herself with this thought, Sheridan continued to look around the room. Her eyes eventually came to rest on a skull on the mantle of the ornate wooden fireplace.

Sheridan gazed up at the skull in fascination. She couldn't imagine Uncle John or Ms. Morstan would _ever_ keep a skull. Thus, it must belong to Dad!

_But why did he never tell me he had a skull?_

_I guess he wanted to surprise me!_

Smiling to herself, she dug into her emergency bag until she found what she was looking for. "Hey_, Abby!_ Look here!" Sheridan whispered, holding her own skull up so that it could see the one sitting on the mantle. "Dad has a skull too! So now you will have a friend to keep you company!"

Abby, who was being carefully held by the girl, stared back blandly. If Abby was pleased by this development or believed that this new skull was a potential rival, she did not show it.

And that was one of the reasons Sheridan was so fond of Abby.

_She always kept her thoughts to herself!_

"I wonder what his name is." Sheridan whispered. "But then again, I don't know if it is a boy skull or a girl skull. What do you think?"

Abby stayed silent.

Sheridan frowned as she considered. "He's bigger than you are, so I think he is probably a boy skull."

Satisfied with her analysis, Sheridan carefully put Abby back into her bag. One thing she learned was that when you are a guest in someone's home, you _always_ ask permission before you start putting your things everywhere.

So Abby would stay in her bag for the time being.

Now she needed to find Uncle John's phone, get Mycroft's number, and get out before her presence was discovered!

The first room she explored was the kitchen. It was tidy, for the most part, although there was a coffee mug that was turned over, which spilled its contents over the counter-top and onto the floor. Sheridan smelt it and discovered the sticky residue was tea, indicating that this happened many hours prior.

_So someone, likely John, found out something while he was drinking tea. The news either excited him or upset him so much that he spilled his tea and didn't stay to clean up the mess._

And, unbelievably, John's cell phone was right beside the overturned cup!

Sheridan quickly reached up to grab the cell phone. She flipped to the contacts list and went through it, looking for anything that could be a contact number for Uncle Mycroft.

There was nothing.

Frowning, Sheridan decided to check the recent text messages. _Maybe one of them held a clue on how to reach Uncle Mycroft._

Her search yielded no results, although she did discover a surprising piece of information in the last text that John received almost twenty-four hours before.

**To: John Watson**

**From: Greg Lestrade**

**In re: Hospital**

_John, Mary is at St. Catherine's. She was attacked by the Slasher but is fine. Come soon.-GL._

Sheridan cocked her head to the side, thinking. "Mary" must be Mary Morstan, the woman that Dad said John liked, the one who lived in the basement flat. John probably got this text while drinking his tea and raced out of the flat, forgetting to take his cell phone with him.

_But did Uncle John ever return? _

_I better find out._

* * *

Taking off her shoes in case they made noise, Sheridan cautiously crept up the stairs to the upstairs bedroom, where she knew the John would be sleeping. Carefully, she turned the door knob and peaked inside the room.

Even in the darkness, Sheridan could still make out that the bed was empty.

_Uncle John isn't here!_

Sheridan sighed, feeling both relieved and disappointed. Although she hadn't planned on revealing her presence to John, she _did_ hope to catch a glimpse of him. According to Dad, John was both a warrior and a healer, and braver than anyone else that Dad knew. But John was supposed to be kind as well, and never turned his back on those who needed his help.

From the way Dad described him, he must be one of the most wonderful people in the world!

_And he wasn't here!_

Sheridan flipped on the light to John's bedroom. The bright light momentarily blinded her, and she blinked several times before her eyes adjusted.

The room was clean, except for the bed, which had been slept in. Curiously, Sheridan began to go through the drawers and snuck a peak into John's closet, just to see if John's tidiness extended to his clothes. It did.

_And Dad was right. John has a fondness for sweaters!_

Sheridan's curious eyes saw that the pillow on John's bed seemed to be closer to one side of the bed than the other. It looked like something was under it. That was strange, because the rest of the room was so precise. Sheridan crossed over to the bed and lifted up the pillow.

Underneath she found a Browning military pistol.

* * *

Sheridan saw the weapon, recognized what it was, and shook her head in annoyance.

_How careless of Uncle John to leave this here! What if someone else came across it? Or, what if another child came around and decided to play with it?_

_I better put it in a safe place so no one else will find it! _

Sheridan knew how to handle guns, of course, just as she understood the dangers they represented. Mom taught her, just after that incident back in Dallas, Texas when Sheridan was four and was admitted into a hospital after she fell out of a tree and broke her arm.

That was also the first time she ever came into contact with Moriarty's Bad Men. She was in the examination room while the doctor was preparing the cast. Without warning, two strangers rushed in and shot the doctor who was attending her, killing him instantly. Then one of them grabbed her by the arm (her broken one, no less) and tried to drag her out of the room while she screamed in terror.

That was when Mom came running in.

Mom felt really bad afterwards. She didn't want to kill those men, but they refused to let Sheridan go. The one who had Sheridan even twisted her arm back, making her scream in anguish, before Mom fired.

Sheridan didn't blame Mom, though. Mom was just trying to protect her from the Bad Men.

_It was Moriarty's fault!_

However, the incident insured that Sheridan would learn a lot about guns and gun safety far earlier than most children.

Patiently, Mom taught Sheridan, after emphasizing, over and over, the guns were not toys. _Guns were weapons. _ They must _always_ be handled with respect and care, or someone could die unnecessarily.

After she made sure that Sheridan understood that, Mom taught the basics of gun care to Sheridan. How to make sure the safety was on. How to check to see if a gun was loaded or not. Where to position a gun so that it didn't accidently go off and hit someone. How to fire a gun and where to aim so you stopped your attacker without killing him.

And the best lesson Sheridan learned was to avoid using guns as much as possible. The less you dealt with them, the less likely someone would get hurt. So Sheridan was taught that she was _only_ allowed to use guns in emergencies.

Recalling the lessons she had learned, Sheridan carefully checked the pistol to make sure that the safety was securely in place before removing the gun from its position on the mattress. Making sure to keep the gun revolver pointed down towards the floor, Sheridan gingerly walked out of the room and down the stairs.

_Now where should I hide it?_

The sitting room and the kitchen were out of the question. So that left two doors leading to two rooms that she hadn't explored yet. The next room was the bathroom, which promised no safe place to hide a weapon. Frustrated, Sheridan opened the door to the last room and flipped on the light.

And stopped at the doorway.

But the last room was _very_ interesting.

It was a bedroom, with a bed, chest of drawers, closet, and nightstand. Walls painted a calming shade of green.

_But the other things…_

On one wall was a poster with the periodic table on it. There was also a certificate for completing judo hanging in a frame on another wall. On the foldable table in the corner of the room was a chemistry set, complete with beakers, a Bunsen burner, and other equipment.

And, wonder of wonders, there was a _microscope._

Hurrying over to this unexpected find, Sheridan carefully set the gun down (pointed away from her, of course) before gently touching the microscope as though it were made of glass and she could break it. Reverently, she gently twisted the knob, then gazed around the room with awe.

_This is Dad's room! And these are Dad's things!_

_Uncle John kept Dad's things!_

Sheridan grinned. She knew that Dad was worried about seeing Uncle John again. He was scared that Uncle John had forgotten him by now.

Which was silly, of course. How could _anyone_ forget someone like Dad?

Mom never did, and they last saw each other nine years ago, before Sheridan was even born. Since Uncle John kept Dad's stuff, then he couldn't have forgotten Dad!

_Wait till Dad finds out!_

Sheridan sobered as she recalled that Dad was also concerned that Uncle John would hate Dad for pretending to be dead.

Now _that_ one she had a hard time comprehending! Surely, if someone thought through the situation, they would understand that Dad did what was necessary to protect them.

_Well, I can't worry about that now. Dad was still missing. And I have to find him. _

In the meantime, Dad's room would be a good place to hide John's gun.

Sheridan sighed with relief after she hid the gun in between the mattress and the box springs in Dad's bed. Unless someone was _really_ looking, it seemed unlikely that a child or anyone else would find it there. Smiling to herself, Sheridan returned to the kitchen to retrieve John's phone in order to see what time it was.

Four thirty-eight in the morning.

So what should she do now? She didn't want to go back to the hotel in case the Bad Men were still there. And she didn't have anywhere else to go at the moment.

Also, she was very tired. She didn't sleep much last night, waiting for Dad to return. And she hadn't slept at all today. So she probably had a few hours to rest before John came home. Maybe by then she could decide on what to do next.

But where should she sleep?

The couch? No, too exposed, especially with the two windows.

John's room? Hardly. John would probably need sleep later, and he was sure to discover her in there.

Dad's room it was, then.

With luck, she could rest up and sneak out without John or anyone else noticing she was ever there.

* * *

John still remembered the panic that rose in his chest as he raced out the door (forgetting his cell phone, of all things) and got a cab to St. Catherine's.

The ride lasted only a few minutes. But to John, it lasted almost a lifetime.

In any event, he had time to recall, in vivid detail, the last time he rushed to a hospital to aid a friend. And the memory did nothing to calm his anxiety.

John found Lestrade pacing the hallway in the hospital, looking rather disturbed. After repeatedly assuring John that Mary was going to be fine, he sat John down in one of the waiting room seats.

"This is a picture of the perp that attacked Mary. Look familiar?" Lestrade asked, thrusting the picture in front of John's face.

John gasped. The picture of that of a bald man, lying on a steal table, covered with a sheet, but leaving his head and face exposed.

John had seen dead people before. _That_ was not what shocked him!

"The _Golem?_" John whispered.

"Oscar Dzundza." Lestrade confirmed. "One of Moriarty's associates, as well as the one you and Sherlock tangled with some time ago."

John's hands shook slightly as he held the picture, unable to tear his eyes away from the dead man's countenance. "So the _Golem_ is the Satanic Slasher?"

Lestrade frowned. "Well, we have not confirmed it yet, but we think so. There was a knife found at the scene. The handle was too bloody for us to lift any fingerprints, but it is a serrated blade. We also found a small scrapple in the bastard's coat pocket. Anderson is checking for trace evidence now."

John scowled as he handed the picture back to Lestrade. "So Moriarty _is_ involved!"

"The Met's not commenting. But if you ask _me_, then I say that yes, Moriarty is involved!"

"But why…" John asked, before the realization hit him, causing the blood to freeze in his veins. "_I will burn the heart out of you_."

"What?" Lestrade asked, perplexed by John's statement.

"_That's_ what Moriarty told Sherlock, around the time that the bastard kidnapped me and strapped me to a bomb! _I will burn the heart out of you!_" John explained.

"And, what? This time he is doing it for real?" Lestrade asked.

John nodded firmly. "The question is, why?"

"Who can understand that psychopath? At least he didn't get Mary." Lestrade grimaced as he looked away. "I just hope the other bloke is ok!"

"_Other bloke?_" John asked. "What other bloke?"

Lestrade shrugged, looking unhappy. "There was another man in the alley with the Slasher and Mary. He managed to rescue her by attacking the Slasher, allowing Mary to escape. He was gone by the time Hopkins, Donovan, and Baxley showed up." Lestrade explained, running his hand through his graying hair.

"Do we know who it is?" John asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "I wish we did, John! But we hope to identify him soon. Anderson has already processed two blood types at the scene. It will take a while to run the DNA tests, but preliminary reports show that there are two separate blood types. One is O positive, which is the same as the Dzundza."

"And the other blood type?" John asked.

"AB positive." Lestrade said, grinning a little. "The rarest blood type, so that helps to narrow down the list. We are checking the local blood bank records and the Met database right now. We believe, based on Mary's description, that the guy is probably homeless. Tall, about six feet, brown hair, and an old coat with holes in it. And he was injured as well. She didn't see his face though. But if the guy shows up at a hospital or clinic, we should be able to find him."

"He's not in any trouble, is he?" John asked.

Lestrade smiled slightly for the first time. "Between you and me, I think the man probably deserves a medal! I would give it to him myself! But we still need to identify him and question him about what happened. To tell you the truth, I hope the man actually made it to a hospital. There was quite a lot of blood at the scene."

John nodded silently.

He hoped that they would find the man, whoever he was, just so he had a chance to thank him personally. Because if the Slasher had succeeded and managed to kill Mary, John honestly didn't think he would be able to handle it.

* * *

Mary _was_ fine, of course, but John still couldn't believe it until he confirmed it with his own eyes.

_He had been so close to losing her. And he was so tired of losing people he cared about._

In the end, Mary only suffered some minor bruising and a gash on her head. Nevertheless, the hospital doctors insisted on keeping her under observation for the slight concussion she received, just as a precaution.

John, for his part, rarely left Mary's side, opting to sleep in the hospital room while she rested from her ordeal.

Mycroft came by for a few minutes to see how she was recovering. Mary became rather tearful at this meeting and expressed her sorrow for what happened to Richard and Leland. Mycroft, ever the politician, reminded her that the men did their duty for Queen and Country.

"They knew the risks, Ms. Morstan. I am only regretful that I was unable to look to your safety to the level you are entitled."

If Mary was emotional during Mycroft's visit, John found himself equally moved when his sister Harry and her lover Clara came to visit. They stayed several hours, with Harry telling Mary amusing stories from John's childhood while John blushed good-naturedly.

As long as Mary was smiling, John was willing to put up with a bruised ego.

He had stubbornly stayed almost thirty-six hours when Mary _finally_ made John leave, telling him he needed to go home and rest so that he could return later when she was discharged from the hospital in a few more hours.

John had argued and pleaded, all to no avail. And when Lestrade came by and teamed up against him by siding with Mary, he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

That was when Clarky arrived...

* * *

"I really appreciate this, Clarky." John said, giving Clarky a tired smile.

"Hey, don't worry about it, John!" Clarky said. "Believe it or not, you are doing _me_ a favor by letting me drive you home! Gets me out of work, and it's for a good cause!"

John smirked jokingly. "So you are doing this _only_ to help yourself? Is this the famous 'Southern Hospitality' I've heard so much about?"

Clarky chuckled. "Southern hospitality doesn't have anything to do with it! John, there is something you have to understand about us 'Southern' folks. There are only three rules you have to learn, and then you can deal with any redneck that comes in your direction!"

John looked over at Clarky curiously. "What are the three rules?"

Clarky smiled as he continued driving. "_Rule number one!_ In the South, we listen to country music. As long as you know that almost all country songs are either about a cheating girlfriend, a hound dog, or a pick-up truck, then you can pretty much follow along!"

John laughed. "That sounds _awful!_"

"Nah! It's _entertainment!_ Once, when I was younger, _I_ wrote a country song! Something about my cheating girlfriend and hound dog stealing my pick-up truck and running off together! A new spin on an old classic!"

John smirked. "So what is _rule number two_?"

"Never, _ever_, under any circumstance, talk about gun control!" Clarky said, with an expression of mock-horror on his face.

"Have you shared these rules with Stan?" John asked.

Clarky nodded. "That's why he thinks all Americans love violence!"

John giggled. "I can't _wait_ to hear the last rule!"

"Oh, the last rule is the most important one of all! It is practically _gospel_ where I'm from!" Clarky said.

"And the rule is?" John prompted.

"Well, in the South, we _never_ ask if there are crazy members in our family!"

John looked at Clarky. "Why not? Because you are afraid you will get shot?"

Clarky grinned. "Oh _hell_ no, John! In the South, we simply ask which side of the family the crazy members are on! Then we bring them down from the attic and show them off!"

John laughed as Clarky pulled up to 221 B Baker Street, feeling infinitely better than he did earlier, after he learned that Mary had been attacked.

Clarky smirked, his eyes aglow with good humor. "I am _so_ glad that the British have a sense of humor!" He said, looking pleased with himself.

"Did you know any British people before you came here?" John asked curiously, after he stopped laughing.

"Well, I know _Molly_, of course." Clarky said, suddenly grinning sheepishly.

"And how long have you known Molly?" John asked.

Clarky shrugged. "Several years, I guess. We have been friends for a while." Clarky mumbled.

John watched as Clarky blushed crimson, even underneath his tan. "So…what do you two do together?"

Clarky cleared his throat. "Well, sometimes we go to restaurants, so I can sample the fine cuisine here. And occasionally I go over to her house. To hang out and watch TV, of course. _Battlestar Galactica_, and _Doctor Who._ Those shows."

John smirked knowingly. "_Of course._"

Clarky glared over at John. "It's also so our boys can spend time together!"

John looked at Clarky, eyebrows raised in surprise. "You and Molly have _sons_?"

Clarky rolled his eyes. "Toby and Smokey! Our _cats!"_

John smirked. "So you are a cat lover like Molly! That's right! I remember you telling me the first time we met that you had a cat!"

Clarky nodded. "Yep! Got me a gray Persian named Smokey! He's almost as big as Toby, and he has one eye!"

John looked critically at Clarky. "_One eye?_"

"Yep! Stupid cat got into a fight with a pit bull! And won, by the way!"

John shook his head. "So Molly's cat is hanging around with a cat that lost an eye to a pit bull? And that's the _only_ reason why you two get together?"

"Maybe there is a _bit_ more to it than that." Clarky admitted sheepishly.

"I see." John nodded approvingly. "You _do_ realize that most people are of the opinion that you are good for Molly. She doesn't usually have success when it comes to relationships."

Clarky frowned. "So I've heard! Lucky said that Molly's last boyfriend was a complete _psycho_!" Clarky replied.

"Lucky?" John asked.

Clarky nodded. "Patrick Covington. An old colleague of mine. We worked a few months together in Knoxville, where I was living before I came here. He told me Molly's last boyfriend, Jim something-or-other, turned out to be a real _ass!_ Wouldn't go into too much detail, though." Clarky explained. "Anyway, after Lucky loosened up a little, he kind of sold me on the joys of living like a Brit, so I figured I give it a try. I needed a change of scenery anyways, after that Smith case."

"And then you come here and have to deal with the Satanic Slasher." John observed dryly.

"Just goes to show that there is no rest for the wicked! Doesn't matter where you go! I hope they find that other guy, though. Maybe the Yard will treat him to a round at the pub or something." Clarky suggested. "But hey, any excuse to go drinking!"

John nodded as he and Clarky stepped out of the car. "I would also like to thank the man when we find him. I just hope he had the sense to go to a hospital somewhere!"

Clarky nodded emphatically. "I hope so, too!" He glanced at the clock in his car console. "Well, it's almost ten o'clock. My shift ends in another hour."

John smiled. "Well, since you drove me home, the least I can do is offer you something. Do you want any tea, or coffee?"

Clarky grinned. "Actually, I may take you up on that offer. I won't stay too long, of course, but if I waste enough time, then I can go straight home and not go back to the office."

John nodded. "Well, come on up and I'll fix you a cuppa."

* * *

"Now, I need to warn you in advance." John told Clarky as he fumbled around for his key at the top of the landing. "I used to share this flat with my best friend. His tastes were rather…_eccentric_, so don't be surprised about some of the things you see in here."

Clarky shrugged. "I _like_ eccentric people! So that works for me! But why did he move out and leave his stuff behind?"

John paused, swallowing against the lump in his throat. "He didn't. He died, a year and a half ago."

Clarky caught the stricken look on John's face. "Oh. _Damn!_ I'm real sorry to hear that!"

John nodded, but kept his eyes down. "It was a long time ago."

Clarky shook his head. "I've lost friends on the front lines _and_ in the line of duty, John! When people go through stuff like that, it still hurts. Hell, I still miss my friends, and some of them I lost almost a decade ago!"

John smiled sadly. "He died saving my life."

Clarky's nodded, his eyes full of understanding. "My best friend, Jake Campbell, took a bullet for me in Afghanistan. I know what it's like."

John sighed. "After it happened, most people tried to tell me to 'get over it' and move on. They still do." He finally got the key in the door, but struggled to get it to turn.

Clarky smiled sympathetically. "If only it were that easy! I don't think we can ever 'move on,' but we can live life so that we honor our friends' sacrifices. It is what they would want. But there is no dishonor in remembering them, and anyone who tells you differently just needs to shut up unless they lost a friend themselves! Look here!" Clarky said, reaching towards his neck and holding up a set of dog tags. "One of these belongs to me, and the other one belongs to Jake! His family let me have it."

John smiled sadly as he inspected the dog tags. "I can't even find my set! I lost them, I think."

Clarky smirked. "The joys of being discharged! Was your friend ex-military too?"

John shook his head. "_Hardly!_ He never liked following rules and that type of thing!" John smirked as he finally managed to open his door. "Well, while you are here hiding out until your shift ends, you can tell me about your friend, if you like."

Clarky nodded. "Sure! Then maybe you can tell me about a bit about yours!"

* * *

"_Okay…_" Clarky said after he followed John into the flat. The curtains had been drawn over the windows, making the room dim. "Your flat looks fine to me, John. _Much_ cleaner than mine, anyway. Less cat hair! And I like the cow skull on the wall! Adds some interest!"

John smiled as he took off his coat. He looked back at the flamboyant American. "So, do you want tea or coffee?"

Clarky shrugged. "As long as it has caffeine…"

Suddenly, the entry door to the flat, which was left wide open, shut with a slam, and a shadowy figure darted out from behind it. Before either man could react, much less turn around, the person pulled an object from his coat and brought it down on top of Clarky's head, causing the forensics worker to pitch forward and fall face first onto the floor.

"_Clarky!_" John yelled. He immediately jumped forward to help, only to find himself staring into the barrel of a pistol, equipped with a silencer.

"Good morning, Doctor." Sebastian Moran greeted John. His cold eyes glistened like a predator's, unconcerned and unsympathetic to his victim's plight. "I have been waiting for you."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Crap! Moran is back! And he's pointing a gun! _Again! _

WHAT IS THIS GUY'S PROBLEM?

We learn a little more about Clarky! He has a crazy sense of humor, doesn't he? If anyone is offended by the humor directed at Americans who live in the south, I want to make it clear that I myself am a proud southern American (like Clarky, I live in Tennessee). It is not meant to be taken seriously.

I wonder if Clarky and John will live or not. What do you all think?

Well, Sheridan decided to leave me behind and write her own little adventures!

I guess I shouldn't be surprised! First, little Sheridan is basically Mini-Sherlock, although she has her mother's natural ability to adjust to any situation, as well as a "kick-butt" attitude. Although I _am_ worried about her knowledge of firearms!

Seriously, people, don't leave guns where children can get to them! Because think of what _Sheridan_ may do if she gets bored!

By the way, "Smokey" is real. He is a grey Persian cat with one eye. He ran away from home once, and a few days after he disappeared, one of my neighbors accidently ran over a grey cat while plowing up his field with his tractor. I was naturally upset, because I thought he had killed my cat, and I cried. Then, four weeks later, Smokey shows up outside our door and almost gave my father a heart attack (he watched the movie "Pet Semetary" the night prior to Smokey's return).

Smokey was alright, accept he was thin and injured from getting into a fight with an animal. I took him to the vet, but he ended up losing an eye (my poor baby!). Still, Smokey is still here, and always insists on sitting on my lap every time I try to type something. So I thought I would incorporate him into the story.

And no! I have no idea what type of animal injured Smokey. The vet said it was probably a dog, so I made it a pit bull in my story. But I have nothing against pit bulls, just in case any of my readers owns one.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." And the three rules for surviving an encounter with a redneck? Pure myth!

**OC Clarky**-Hey, Peaceful Defender! You left us in a bit of a cliff hanger here! Am I dead?

**Peaceful Defender**-I haven't decided yet! I mean, you _are_ Molly's love interest!

**OC Clarky**-_Okay..._

**Peaceful Defender**-By the way, why do you say "_okay_" when everyone else in this story says "_ok_?"

**OC Clarky**-I'm from the South! That's the way I learned how to say it! Technically, you pronounce it the same way I do, but you don't want to admit it!

**Peaceful Defender**-You know, you aren't helping to convince me to let you live!

**OC Clarky**-But getting back to our conversation, why is it so important about me being Molly's new boyfriend?

**Peaceful Defender**-_Clarky!_ How much do you know about the whole "Sherlock" series?

**OC Clarky**-_Sherlock? _ What's that? A brand of beer from Ireland?

**Peaceful Defender**-You mean no one at the Yard has told you about Sherlock?

**OC Clarky**-If I knew what a "Sherlock" was, then I would go order one, now wouldn't I?

**Peaceful Defender** (shakes head in disbelief)-The sad thing is, I can't tell if you are completely clueless, or if you secretly know everything and are trying to fool me! How do I know that you aren't some sort of criminal planted by Moriarty?

**OC Clarky**-_Moriarty? _ What's that?

**Peaceful Defender**-Molly's old boyfriend.

**OC Clarky**-_Oh!_ You mean Jim from IT? The lying, good-for-nothing-bastard that broke her heart? Why would _I_ work for him? I may punch him until I break his nose…

**Peaceful Defender**-_So_…either you are totally innocent, or you are a very good actor! Sorry, Clarky, but I need one review before I can continue.

**OC Clarky** (sighs and takes out a guitar and starts composing a country song)

_OH! I'm a lying here on the floor! _

_I may be dead, but I don't know!_

_So people, review some more!_

_Review before I sink too low!_

**Peaceful Defender** (putting hands over her ears) _Yes!_ Please review soon, or my brain will rot from listening to this!


	18. Chapter 17

**Warning: Violence, language, and blood in this chapter. **

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Bullets**

"Children's talent to endure stems from their ignorance of alternatives." Maya Angelou

* * *

"_Clarky!_"

Sheridan jolted out of her sleep, out of the confused blur of muted shadows and shapes from half-remembered dreams.

_Where was she?_

Frowning, she glanced blearily around the unfamiliar room. She was sleeping on the floor, with a Union Jack pillow and a duvet, which still hung loosely on her shoulders.

She was in a bedroom, with a chest of drawers, bed, and nightstand. It also had a chemistry set, microscope, judo certificate, periodic table…

_Oh. That's right!_

She came to Baker Street last night, hoping to find some way to contact Uncle Mycroft through John's cell phone. Luckily, Uncle John wasn't there, and he left his cell behind. However, Uncle Mycroft's contact information wasn't stored there. It was late, and cold outside. She decided to rest a few hours…

Frowning as she pushed the hair from her face, Sheridan glanced at John's cell phone, which lay on the floor beside her.

Almost ten o'clock in the morning.

_I overslept!_

"Good morning, Doctor. I have been waiting for you."

Sheridan froze, her breath caught in her throat.

_Someone was outside in the main sitting room. _

_Someone said "Doctor." _

_Is it Uncle John?_

Moving cautiously, she tip-toed to Dad's door and slowly, _oh so slowly_, opened it a crack so she could see what was going on outside. She couldn't see anything, so she cautiously made her way down the hall and towards the main sitting room, making sure to stay out of sight.

What she saw made her want to scream out in terror.

It was _him_!

Sebastian Moran. Moriarty's second-in-command and leader of the Bad Men!

She never saw him face-to-face, of course. But she saw him in pictures on the computer, after she and Mom hacked Moriarty's system. He was not tall like Dad, but he had broad shoulders and stood up straight like the soldier he once was. And his eyes made him look beast-like and cold-blooded.

At the very least, his appearance was enough to make her feel as though her blood had frozen in her veins.

He was calmly pointing a gun in the direction of another man, whose back was toward her. A shorter man with ash-blonde hair.

"You know, Dr. Watson, my employer was most displeased when he woke up yesterday morning."

Sheridan's eyes widened in alarm. The man that Moran was pointing a gun to was Uncle John!

_Moran was going to hurt Uncle John!_

Ducking behind the corner, Sheridan fumbled with John's phone, which she had forgotten she still had in her hand.

She needed to get help!

Frantically, she flipped through the contacts_. Surely there was someone here! Someone she could contact…_

_Wait!_

There _was_ someone she could contact!

* * *

"So the man at St. Clement's is not the right one?" Lestrade asked Donovan.

The female Sergeant shook her head. "Wrong blood type. He was B negative. And the stab wound isn't consistent with a serrated blade."

Lestrade nodded as he sipped his coffee.

"No luck at Cromwell, St. Mary's, or Charing Cross either, Greg." Hopkins said, settling himself on the couch in Lestrade's office. "We must have several dozen Yarders canvasing the hospitals, and not one of them has our guy."

"So there is a strong possibility he could be dead." Lestrade muttered, rubbing his temples.

"It's possible, Greg." Donovan acknowledged, looking down at the floor. "But it's also possible that we just haven't located him yet."

"Well, nothing we can do except what we are doing now. Maybe he will show up somewhere else, like at a walk-in clinic or something." Hopkins said, trying to look hopeful.

Lestrade nodded just as his phone beeped, signaling a new text message. "Maybe this is someone with news that they located the guy." Lestrade said out loud before looking at the text.

What he read was completely unexpected. And it chilled him like sudden frost on a flower in springtime.

**To: Lestrade**

**From: John**

**In re: HELP!**

_GL, come quickly! Moran is at 221 Baker Street and has a gun pointed at John! Need Yard assistance at once!-JW._

"_Fuck!_" Lestrade yelled, jumping up from his desk. "Donovan, Hopkins! We need to get to Baker Street right now! John's in trouble!"

* * *

"So what are you doing here, Moran?" John asked calmly, despite the fact that he had a gun trained to his head.

Moran smirked wickedly. "So you _know_ who I am! Very good! I wondered whether Ms. Morray sent information about me to Mr. Holmes."

"She did." John confirmed. "But that shouldn't surprise you."

"Hardly." Moran said. "We are men of action, Captain Watson. We have been taught to expect the unexpected and react accordingly. We are survivors. We do what we must."

"And yet you work for a psychopath who kills people at random! How is that _survival?_" John shot back.

"So you _know_ that Moriarty is alive." Moran stated calmly, unaffected by John's outburst.

John kept his face impassive, but inwardly he was panicking.

_Why did he just blurt that out for? He wasn't supposed to know Moriarty was alive!_

"Actually, I _didn't_ know. I merely suspected it, especially after Mary was attacked. I must thank you for confirming my suspicions, though. But it is the only explanation to everything that is going on. Why was the Slasher cutting out his victims' hearts and burning them? Because it was a message. '_I will burn the heart out of you._'"

"That's right. Well done, Doctor." Moran noted.

"Spare me the pleasantries, Moran! First your boss makes my friend jump off a fucking five-storied building! Then he just tried to have my fiance killed! And now he sends you for me? Doesn't he have anything better to do!" John yelled, feeling his anger rise up inside him.

"Actually, he doesn't, Doctor. Not after Ms. Morray began to take down our operation. Thanks to her, there is hardly an empire left." Moran paused, as though to keep from himself from losing his temper from thinking about the treacherous sister who brought his boss so much aggravation.

"Sounds like she's doing everyone a favor!" John noted dryly.

Moran snorted derisively. "I wouldn't get your hopes up! It is only a matter of time before she shows herself. And then Moriarty will put her down, like the rabid _bitch_ that she is! Then we can rebuild, and be stronger than ever." Moran explained, speaking with the passionate furor of a committed disciple.

"So what the hell are you doing here?" John muttered angrily. "How did you get in?"

"I picked the lock on your door, only five minutes before you arrived. My contact said you were headed this way, and we couldn't grab you at the hospital, so…" Moran shrugged, looking deceptively causal. "I almost broke the lock in my hurry to be here in time for your arrival. Between doing that and killing the men that Mr. Holmes had watching this place from across the street, I almost didn't have enough time!"

John grimaced as he recalled the numerous times it took him to get the key to turn in the lock before the door opened. He should have realized.

_Sherlock never would have made such a stupid mistake! _

Moran's eyes briefly gazed around the room, even though he kept his gun pointed at John. "You know, I have never been in here before. I have seen these rooms, but only through my scope. It is so different, viewing your opponent through a high-powered lens versus standing in front of him."

"Yes! It must be _so_ much easier killing people from a distance, so you don't have to look them face-to-face!" John muttered, glaring daggers at Moran.

"So you think I am a coward, Doctor?" Moran replied sagely, training his cold eyes on John again. "I have faced more dangerous men than you could ever hope to meet. And yet I am still here."

"Yes! Working for Moriarty!" John replied, his eyes watching Moran warily. _Keep him talking, and maybe a chance will present itself._

Meanwhile, poor Clarky had not moved from his slumped position on the floor. John couldn't see Clarky's face at all, but he noticed a few spots of fresh blood on the carpet.

_Please God, let him live._

"My employer is a genius, Doctor. Surely you understand what it is like, to work alongside greatness."

"I did, until your _employer_ made my best friend jump off the bloody roof!" John retorted.

Moran paused, as though lost in thought. "You know, it wasn't supposed to be that way. Your friend was supposed to be imprisoned, not killed." Moran saw John's look of disbelief and smiled. "My employer wanted him to join with us, to use his talents towards a better purpose. But first he needed to see what happens to people who try to serve the so-called 'government institutions.' After allowing your friend time to reflect on matters, Moriarty was going to break him out of prison."

"But then Sherlock escaped, and Moriarty realized that Sherlock would _never_ work with him." John surmised.

Moran stared at John, a look of sadness flashing briefly across his face. "I watched him, you know. I watched him jump off the roof at Bart's."

"You were there?" John asked, feeling the back of his eyes burn slightly.

"I was supposed to shoot you, if he didn't jump. I was surprised that he went through with it. I was already preparing myself to shoot you, but he didn't hesitate to step onto that ledge, once he realized there was no way out." Moran said this last emotionlessly, carefully watching John's reaction.

John clenched his teeth together, but willed himself to be still.

He _knew_ what Moran was planning. Moran was hoping that John would lose his temper and lunge towards him, only for Moran to shoot him or to hit him over the head so that he would be knocked unconscious.

_Did Moran really think John was that stupid?_

After a moment, Moran sighed. "Well met, Doctor."

"I may not have been Sherlock, but I know enough to know when someone is trying to bate me. But I am not one of those tigers that you hunted during your poaching days, Moran!"

Moran nodded in acknowledgement, showing grudging respect to the bravery and intelligence of the ex-soldier in front of him.

"But you didn't answer my question from earlier. So why are you here for me, then? Last time I checked, Ms. Morray could care less if I died! She doesn't even _know_ me! So if you think taking me hostage is going to work, then you should be ready for disappointment!"

"Actually, this has nothing to do with Ms. Morray." Moran smirked. "You see, after Dzundza met his unfortunate demise, Jim has been, well, rather _put out_. He needs… a distraction."

The silence was palpable as Moran's words echoed in John's head.

"I see." John finally said. His heart began to pound louder in his chest, and a trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek.

Unbidden, images of the pictures Mycroft had showed him flooded his memory.

_People horribly mutilated as body parts are systematically cut from their bodies. Victims being drowned, electrocuted, beaten, drugged, suffocated. People left to starve, isolated in deplorable conditions, while various wounds are leaking pus and maggots, which are slowly eating them from the inside out. Never enough to kill them, but enough to drag them through a miserable existence until they either broke completely or succumbed to their injuries._

"You are taking me to your boss so that I can be _tortured!_ Am I right? Just like what he did to all of those people!" John said, his teeth gritted tightly together.

It was the only explanation that made sense, since Moran could have easily killed him from across the street. He _was_ a sniper, after all.

Moran nodded in the affirmative. "Personally, _I_ prefer a clean kill. More honorable death. Less messy." Moran said this last with a look of actual regret. "However, my employer requires your presence. So let's go, Doctor."

"And if I decide to decline your boss's invitation?" John growled.

"You don't have a choice." Moran stated bluntly. "I can shoot you in the leg and simply drag you out of here, or you can walk out of here, like a soldier. Which will it be?"

"How about I kick your _arse!_" John shouted as he suddenly kicked upward with his bad leg, using his good leg to maintain his balance. His foot connected with the pistol in Moran's hand.

The silencer muffled the resulting shot.

* * *

"Is there anyone closer!" Lestrade yelled as he gripped the edges of his seat.

"We are the closest unit available, Greg!" Hopkins replied as he gripped the wheel.

"We are less than five minutes away, Greg." Donovan answered from the back seat. Like Lestrade, she was gripping her seat and trying to keep calm.

Hopkins pressed the gas a little harder to increase the speed. After they learned what was going on, the trio raced to the nearest car (which happened to belong to Hopkins).

Had they had the luxury of time, Lestrade and Donovan would have _never_ let Hopkins get behind the wheel of a car, as it was a known fact that Hopkins was a reckless driver, who tended to weave in and out of traffic at a higher rate of speed than what would be considered safe.

But as long as they got there in time to save John, Lestrade didn't care how many traffic codes they broke.

Just as long as they got there in time and in one piece.

_Please, God._ Lestrade thought. _I already failed one friend and caused his death._

_Please don't let me fail another!_

* * *

Sheridan bit her lip to hold back a scream as she continued to view the confrontation between John and Moran from her hidden vantage point. She watched in horror as Uncle John kicked at Moran and caused the gun to go off. The force of John's kick cause the pistol to be pointed upwards, so the bullet ended up embedded in the ceiling.

John's kick also caused Moran to lose his grip on the pistol, and it sailed across the room in a flowing arc, far away from Sheridan's hiding place.

Yelling, Moran jumped forward, trying to retrieve it, only to be tackled by John.

The men rolled around on the carpet, heedless to the fact that they were bumping into the sofa and managed to overturn one of the armchairs, which crashed sideways onto the floor. They grunted as they twisted with each other, each desperate to get the upper hand.

_Be careful, Uncle John!_ Sheridan pleaded silently from her vantage point.

Should she go out and help? Should she stay hidden? What is Moran knew who she was, left John, and grabbed her?

_What if he took her to Moriarty?_

The girl unconsciously shook her head in disbelief, black curls bouncing slightly, as she found herself caught in a vortex of indecision and terror that most people never experienced and should never have to experience.

Especially one so young.

Suddenly, there was a cry of pain, and then Moran was on top of John, using his body to pin John underneath him. His hands were gripped tightly around John's throat.

John thrashed wildly, chocking, groaning, as he tried to break Moran's hold.

But Moran was too strong.

Sheridan's face was coated with sweat as she fought to keep her panic in check. Moran was hurting Uncle John!

_Maybe he would even kill him!_

_What can she do? _

The Yard still wasn't there, and the man who had come in with Uncle John was still out on the floor, obviously not able to help. From her vantage point, she couldn't tell if the man was dead or not.

Suddenly, the scene morphed in front of her. She was now back in the hospital examination room in Dallas. The body of the nice doctor was in front of her, a rose-colored lake spreading on the floor, while scarlet droplets covered the floor, the table, her attackers, herself…

_Surrounded in a suffocating ocean that smelled of antiseptic, the metallic smell of blood, and the faint smell of drying plaster that was being prepared for her cast._

_ And the blazing pain when one of the Bad Men twisted her arm behind her, causing her to scream. Then the sound of gun fire, and the two men pitched forward on the floor, and now she was drowning in their blood as well. She can't seem to breath, and yet she continued screaming…_

_ And then she felt her mother's arms around her…_

This realization shook Sheridan out of the paralyzing grip of pure terror.

Yes, Mom made everything better, then. But Mom wasn't here to stop the Bad Men now! She wasn't going to jump behind the door and save them!

_But someone had to do something! _

This was _John_, Dad's friend!

_She couldn't let Uncle John die!_

Sheridan raced back down the little hallway until she re-entered Dad's room, no longer caring if the two men could hear her or not. Desperately, she looked around for something to use.

_Maybe she could throw something at Moran!_ A beaker, the microscope, _anything_ to hurt him, or at least distract him!

Then she recalled the pistol she hid earlier under Dad's mattress.

* * *

John wheezed as he clawed ineffectively at Moran's iron grip. White spots danced around his vision, and he felt his lungs burn as they desperately sought air. He tried again to put his feet onto the carpet, in hopes to kick upwards and throw Moran off of him. But his shoes could find not purchase, despite all of his attempts.

Above him, Moran grunted, his face red, as he continued to choke John. His eyes were devoid of all emotion.

No anger, rage, pity, or sadness. Just cold calculation.

John wondered briefly if Moran had just decided to kill him here, or was waiting for him to pass out so that he could drag him back to Moriarty.

_Either way, he was a dead man._

The spots were gone, replaced by a grey mist that threatened to swallow him up. He felt himself fading, and Moran's face began to get farther and farther away, until he looked like he was at the end of a long tunnel.

John's hands started to feel boneless as he felt his body shut down due to lack of oxygen. He thought briefly of the people in his life, their faces floating up like images in a pool.

_Harry. _

_Mrs. Hudson. _

_Mycroft. _

_Lestrade. _

_Mary. _

Images of the life he lead, as well as the life he could never have, joined in a strange kaleidoscope of sounds, smells, tastes, sights, and feelings, blending together as though they were watercolors on a canvas, slowly bleeding together and mixing until they were impossible to decipher from one another.

Was _this _dying? Would they ever know what happened to him? Would they have a body to mourn over?

Did these thoughts go through Sherlock's head as he lay on the pavement, drowning in his own blood?

_Sherlock._

His best friend. Who once said that breathing was _boring._

John begged to differ with _that_ opinion!

But it looks like this will be an argument he would soon be having in person.

_Hold on, John._ Sherlock's voice whispered in the back of his mind. _You can't give up now!_

_I'm tired of fighting. _ John thought. _I'm not strong enough._

_You have always been strong, John! You have never been beaten before!_

_Yeah, well, not this time._ John thought as his eyes closed. He couldn't see, but he knew his lips were turning blue. _But maybe that means I'll see you soon…_

_JOHN!_

Suddenly, two loud shots had rang out, followed by a blood-curling scream, and Moran's hands disappeared from his throat.

* * *

John coughed as he took deep, gasping breaths, sucking in the precious oxygen that his lungs were temporarily deprived of. He looked briefly at the fallen Colonel, who was screaming at the top of his lungs, as though he was gored on the horns of a bull. He was grasping the back of his trousers, which were quickly becoming red with blood.

John noticed, even in the dim morning light, that a yellow stain was spreading in front of Moran's trousers.

Dragging himself away from the thrashing mess that was Sebastian Moran, John looked up to catch a glimpse of his savior, gasping and rubbing his sore neck.

What he saw was completely unexpected.

A girl, _a mere child_, was grasping a service revolver with both hands. _His_ service revolver! The one he kept under his pillow upstairs, ever since he learned that Moriarty was still alive!

Yet somehow this girl had found it. And used it.

_Who is she? And what was she doing here?_

The girl looked so _young_, maybe seven or eight years old, with thick, chocolate curls that were somewhat disheveled and light-colored eyes that seemed to glow in the dim light, as though kept ablaze from an inner glow. Most of her diminutive frame was hidden beneath a black leather coat that went down to her knees. She was also wearing jeans and a pair of trainers. The shoelaces were untied, suggesting that she put on her shoes in a hurry and didn't bother to tie her laces. A dark colored scarf was wrapped around her neck.

The girl still trained the gun on the withering sniper. Her face was expressionless, but beads of sweat appeared on the child's pale face. Her lips were pressed into a firm line, and her gaze never wavered from Moran.

Moran paused from his screaming to gasp for breath, finally spying the person responsible for his predicament. His features twisted in shock.

"_You shot me_!" He muttered disbelievingly.

The girl simply raised her chin up an inch in an act of defiance and cocked the revolver again. She watched Moran boldly, or perhaps intently, for she watched him with the same air of a cornered animal, cautiously watching for the first flinch of its attacker.

Nevertheless, her expression was cold, like ice and snow exposed to sub-zero temperatures, and it conveyed her intent in a way that no words ever could.

_If Moran made another move, she would pull the trigger again._

_And she wasn't afraid to kill him if she had to. _

Before anyone in the room could make a move, the door leading from the stairs burst open.

Lestrade, gun raised in the air, shouted loudly. "_Metro Police!_ _Nobody move_!" Donovan and Hopkins followed closely behind, guns drawn.

"_Don't shoot!_" John yelled out, his voice raw from his recent strangulation. Instinctively, he stood in front of the Yarders, in case they opened fire on the girl.

"John?" Lestrade said. He stared at the bleeding mess that Sebastian Moran was making on the floor. "_What the bloody hell happened!_"

John nodded his head toward the girl. "I'll explain later! But how did you know that we needed help?"

Hopkins looked at John, eyebrows raised. "You texted us!"

John's mouth hung open. "No I didn't!"

"But how is that possible?" Donovan asked, confused. "We have a text saying someone had a gun on you. And it came from your cell!"

"_You bitch_!" Moran's voice screamed out, causing everyone's eyes to be fixed on him. He didn't bother to look at them; his own eyes were locked with the person who succeeded on bringing him down to his knees when no one else could.

_After all of this, to have successfully dodged skilled agents and destroyed other deadly assassins, to be defeated by a __child!__?_

"_You shot me! You FUCKING BITCH!_" Moran screamed again as he raised himself to his knees, but otherwise made no other movement.

John looked back at the girl, whom didn't even seem to register the presence of the officers or respond to Moran's words. The gun was still pointed squarely at Moran's chest, who glared at the girl with amazement and anger, as if seriously debating whether she would shoot him a third time.

Thankfully, Hopkins, who took in the situation quickly, swooped over to throw Moran onto the floor and handcuff the belligerent sniper, who let loose a string of curse words that John had not heard since leaving the army. Lestrade raced over to help, and the two men pulled the captured assassin to his feet.

Remarkably, the girl _still_ didn't react, except to keep the gun trained at Moran's chest.

_She must be in shock._ John thought to himself.

_Either that or she is brave to the point of fearlessness!_

"_Ugh!_ Anyone ever told you that you have the right to remain _silent_, buddy?" Clarky muttered from his position on the floor as he glared weakly at Moran, who was still shouting out profanities to the heavens.

"Clarky?" Lestrade gasped, finally noticing his fellow Yarder sprawled out on the floor. "Are you alright?"

"I have a headache, and I _know_ I haven't been drinking, Greg! Definitely not alright!" Clarky mumbled.

Propping himself on his elbows, Clarky blearily looked at the rest of the group. A small trickle of blood trailed down his face, and he dizzily reached up to wipe it away from his eyes. "_Oh, man!_ _Why_ does my head hurt? What did I miss?" His eyes scanned the room and fell upon the pint-sized shooter, who was still pointing the gun at Moran. "_What the…_"

"Where are you hurting, mate?" John said, kneeling down beside Clarky and checking him for additional injuries.

"I'm fine! Just my head." Clarky muttered as Hopkins and Lestrade started to drag the belligerent sniper out of the room. He gestured towards the child. "Who's that? A new recruit? Didn't know Scotland Yard hired them _this_ young! We have laws against that back home!"

John chuckled at Clarky's bizarre humor.

_If he was feeling well enough to joke, then he would be fine._

"Donovan." Lestrade said loudly to be heard over Moran's rantings, looking significantly at the girl.

Donovan nodded understandingly. Without another word, the two Detective Inspectors dragged the wounded man out of the flat, leaving a trail of crimson in his wake and a string of curse words and mingled threats that were barely intelligible enough to be understood.

"Is she _yours_, John?" Clarky asked weakly, glancing back towards the girl.

"No. I don't know who she is." John admitted, gently messaging his sore neck. "I have no idea how she got in, either!" After doing a cursory check for additional injuries on both himself and Clarky, he turned back to look at the girl.

When Moran had finally disappeared from sight and his protects became faint, the child slumped down to a sitting position, onto her knees, but still kept a death grip on the gun.

Donovan had quickly holstered her weapon and slowly walked over to her, carefully trying to avoid any loud noises that could startle her. Her brown eyes radiated concern. "Hey? Are you alright?" She asked calmly, trying to put the girl at ease.

The girl continued to stare forward, her once-fierce eyes now void of all expression.

Donovan had dealt with many traumatized children in the past. At crime scenes and accident sites. They seemed to disconnect themselves from reality and failed to respond to their surroundings.

Some of them recovered. _Eventually._

The trick was to try to reach out to them, to make them feel secure again.

"My name is Sally." Donovan said kindly. "What's your name?"

No response. The girl continued to stare at the doorway where Moran was dragged out earlier. The blood on the carpet stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the room. In the dim light coming from the cloudy sky outside the window panes, it seemed to be the only thing in the room with any color.

Donovan carefully crouched down on the floor so that she sat a few feet away from the girl before she tried again. "Are you worried about that bad man? They took him away. He can't hurt you. You're safe." Donovan said.

The girl finally seemed to snap out of her trance. She looked over at Donovan, her bright eyes lit up curiously, as though she was honestly surprised to see Donovan there.

Surprised, but not afraid.

Wordlessly, she secured the gun's safety and offered the service revolver to Donovan, handle first, keeping the revolver pointed downward. Her movements were so quick that Donovan didn't have a chance to say anything or plead with the girl not to hurt herself.

Donovan tentatively took it from her.

Alarm bells went off in John's hand as he realized what the girl's movements meant.

_The way the girl handed the gun to Donovan was exactly how he had been trained to handle firearms on the firing range during basic training._

_The child was familiar with the rules in handling firearms!_

John walked over to the girl and knelt a few feet beside her. "Has someone taught you how to handle guns before?" He inquired curiously.

The child looked at John, eyes wide, before nodding. John noticed that her eyes darted momentarily at his throat, and her eyes inexplicably softened with relief.

"Was it your parents?" Donovan asked quietly.

The girl looked down. She wrapped her arms around her knees and nodded.

"Where are they? What are their names?" John prompted kindly.

The girl stayed silent.

_Perhaps she thought she was going to be punished?_

John gave the girl a gentle smile that he hoped would put her at ease. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't ask so many questions. But I have to admit that I'm impressed. Not many people are as brave as you have been."

The girl cracked a shaky grin before lapsing back to her former stoic attitude.

"Maybe she can teach _Anderson_ how to shoot!" Clarky snickered from behind them, still lying down on the floor.

Despite herself, Donovan giggled a little. It was well known to everyone in the Met that Anderson couldn't shoot a gun if he tried, which was why he was never issued a firearm of any sort. After Clarky's comment, Donovan found herself picturing the girl on the firing range instructing Anderson on the fine art of shooting people in the arse.

John smirked in Clarky's direction before turning back to dark-haired girl. "My name is John. The man over there is Clarky. And Sally has already introduced herself." John said, glancing briefly at Donovan and smiling gently. "So, what's _your_ name?" John asked.

The girl shook her head and curled up a little more, looking very, very small.

"Is it because your parents told you not to talk to strangers?" Donovan questioned.

She had to admit, the girl _was_ cute, even though she was pointing a gun at a man earlier. But _different_, somehow, from other kids she had seen. _She just couldn't figure out how_.

The girl nodded in response to Donovan's question, raven curls bobbing around her prominent cheek bones.

John paused as alarm bells rang in the back of his mind again. Something about this girl was familiar. _Very familiar, _even though he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

But then, maybe it was just his imagination.

"Well, we are members of the London Metropolitan Police! We protect people!" Donovan explained. "We're the good guys! If you tell us where your parents are, we can take you to them."

The girl's reaction to this statement was heartbreaking. Her face crumpled, and she buried her head into her lap, shoulders shaking violently.

Moving instinctively, John had reached over and gently placed his arm over her shoulder while the other two looked on, uncertain about what to do. The child stiffened slightly at first, but didn't pull away from the contact.

John couldn't tell if she was crying or not.

_She was shaking, though._

And that was enough to tell John that she was upset.

"It's ok." John had whispered over and over when the girl finally looked up at him.

She _wasn't_ crying, but seemed very close to it. However, as she had done so earlier, she seemed to assert almost inhuman control over her emotions, which unsettled John a little. But her face was pale, and her eyes pleaded mutely for compassion. She relaxed a little more, and quietly scooted herself closer to John, as though drawn to his concern for her welfare.

"It's ok." John repeated over and over.

_A pointless thing to say,_ John reflected. But he had to, because there was no one else there to tell the girl that.

It reminded him of all the times people had said that to him. _When he saw his parents kick Harry out of the house. When he was shot in Afghanistan. When he watched Sherlock jump from the roof. When he learned the awful truth of why Sherlock jumped in the first place. When Moriarty came back, while his best mate lay moldering in a grave long before his time._

Nothing was ever "ok" after that, but _someone_ had to comfort this child, even if the comfort was based on a lie.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Poor Sheridan! The girl is not having an easy time of it, is she? Her father is missing, she can't find Mycroft, she had to shoot a gun at someone, and she's been discovered by the very people who aren't supposed to know about her yet!

On the positive side, she shot the man because he was trying to kill John! And she shot to maim (and possibly humiliate), not kill. Not bad for an eight-year old, but damn Moran for putting her in that position in the first place!

It was a good thing the Yard showed up when they did! I hate to think what would happen if Moran forced Sheridan to shoot him again! The poor girl has had enough violence and tragedy in her life!

I just hope she never starts shooting at the walls and making big smiley faces!

Now I know that you all believe her reactions are far from normal! And I completely agree with you! But remember that Sheridan once witnessed two men come in, kill a man in front of her, and tried to yank her out of a hospital room by dragging her out (with her broken arm, no less). She then sees her mother come in and shoot the two killers. So violence is nothing new for her. She has seen it, and unlike most children, she has become stronger because of it.

Already, she has accepted that the world does not exist in black and white, where lies are always wrong and violence is never the answer. She has had to learn, very early, that lies can be told if you wish to stay alive, and that violence is ok as long as it is done in order to save someone's life. Still, it is tragic that she has to learn all of this while she is so young in the first place.

But back to her current perdicament! What does she do now? How does she explain herself? And what if someone figures out who her father is?

**Disclaimer: **I don't own "Sherlock." And I don't advocate letting minors have access to firearms! Or Anderson! However, I _do_ own what happened to Sebastian Moran! Ah, sweet revenge!

**OC Clarky**-I'm alive! _ALIVE!_

**Peaceful Defender**-And my ears _still_ hurt from your country music!

**Sebastian Moran**-YOU LET A CHILD SHOOT ME? TWICE? _IN THE ARSE?_ ARE YOU COMPLETELY PSYCHOTIC!

**Peaceful Defender**-Says the man who works for Moriarty!

**Sebastian Moran**-You BITCH!

**Peaceful Defender**_-(_rolls eyes_) _Seb, you got a problem with foul language, but since I am an attorney, I have been called far worse things in my short life! Besides, why should I care what you think, since you can't seem to keep control of your bladder?

_**OC Clarky**-_Now _that_ was fun to read!

**Peaceful Defender**_-(_smirking_) _That's what he gets for pointing a gun at me in the first place! _And_ for threatening to shoot my reviewers earlier!

**OC Clarky**-_Wait!_ What? He pointed a gun at you?

**Peaceful Defender** (shrugs)-He points a gun at everyone! We are trying to break him of that habit, but it's slow going! Next time, we plan on using an electric collar that will shock him every time he picks up a firearm!

**OC Clarky**-Well, I'm all for that! He _pistol-whipped_ me! Ouch! I need to get some pain medication for my head! Or some beer!

**Peaceful Defender**-And I need some reviews before I continue!


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen: The Secret**

"We seal our fate with the choices we make." Gloria Estefan, _Seal Our Fate_

* * *

Donovan, who had nothing else to do while John was comforting the girl, decided to do a quick search of the flat, to see if there were other weapons. Her eyes quickly spotted Moran's gun, and she took a picture of it with her cell phone.

Normally, she wouldn't _dream_ of disturbing evidence, but with a _child_ here, especially one who knew how to shoot a gun…

"I got a spare pair of gloves and two evidences bags in my pocket here, Sally." Clarky said from his propped-up position on the couch, having somehow read her thoughts. Holding a pack of frozen peas that John had given him pressed to his forehead with one hand, he used his other hand to pull out the needed items out of his front coat pocket.

"Thanks, Clarky." Donovan said, quickly putting on the gloves, and then picking up the gun and putting it into the evidence bag. She then placed John's Browning pistol in the other, and then placed them both high on the mantle, so the little girl wouldn't have to see them anymore.

After doing a sweep of the other rooms, she walked down the hallway that led to Sherlock's old bedroom. Entering it, Donovan noted that someone (probably the girl) had taken the duvet off of the bed and fashioned a make-shift bed on the floor in the corner of the room.

Beside the duvet was a child-sized backpack.

_So the girl must have somehow snuck in and decided to rest here._

_Maybe she is a runaway? Or a lost tourist?_

"Here you go, honey." Donovan said soothingly as she re-entered the main room, handing the child the backpack. "I hope you aren't carrying any weapons in there!"

The girl shook her head at Donovan's joke and smiled up at her, then turned to John, who still crouched on the floor beside her. "Sheridan." She said quietly.

"What?" Donovan asked, looking confused.

"My name. You asked for it earlier." The girl reminded her, speaking softly. "It's _Sheridan_. But most people call me _Sheri_."

John smiled. _Finally, the girl spoke_. "Well, Sheri, why don't we go downstairs and get you checked out? We can contact your parents at the hospital and have them meet us there."

The girl froze, her eyes wide with alarm. "_No hospital!"_ She rose quickly to her feet. "I'm not going to _any_ hospital! _Ever!_" She shrieked.

Donovan regarded Sheridan with concern. _A girl who did not seemed too badly affected by shooting a man, but who was hysterical at the mention of hospitals? _"We want to make sure you aren't injured, Sheri. Why don't you want to go to the hospital?"

"Because that's where people go to _die_!" Sheridan cried, voice tense with distress. She looked hopefully at John. "Can't you just check me for injuries? _Please?_ You're a doctor! You can tell them I'm fine! I don't _want_ to go to the hospital!"

John put his hand on the panicked girl's shoulder. "It's ok." He repeated. _Great, now I'm starting to sound like a broken record!_ "Let's go downstairs. Let's have the paramedics check you out, and then we will go from there. Alright?"

The girl looked up at John and nodded hesitantly.

Together, they descended the steps, John with his arm around the girl's shoulders while Donovan walked alongside Clarky, who wanted to walk to an ambulance on his own power instead of being carried to one on a stretcher.

Outside, the street was alive with activity. Officers were blocking off the scene from curious bystanders and shouting orders to each other. Across the street, several paramedics were carrying out several body bags from the empty house across the street.

_Mycroft's men_, John thought regretfully. _Didn't Moran say earlier that he killed them so that they would not interfere?_

Fighting the urge to gag, John instinctively moved to block Sheridan's vision of the grim scene and steered her towards two ambulances that waited silently a short distance away.

* * *

Within minutes, Clarky was having his head examined by one crew of paramedics while John sat with Sheridan in the other ambulance.

Donovan watched as the paramedic first checked John's neck before declaring that he would be fine, although he needed to be on the lookout for any unusual swelling or problems breathing. At his insistence, the paramedic then went on to check Sheridan's temperature, heart rate, and blood pressure.

Suddenly, Anderson appeared from out of the crowd. He rushed over and went straight to Donovan.

"_Sally!_ Is everyone alright over here? Greg said something about a kid shooting Moran in the arse…"

"_Anderson!_" Donovan muttered, glancing over at the girl, who was eyeing Anderson curiously.

"What?" Anderson asked, then froze when he saw the child. "_Oh!_" He said significantly, turning red. "Sorry." He apologized to the girl, who studied his woebegone face before offering a shy smile.

"Well, Sheridan, I think you will be fine." Said the paramedic, who finished taking the blood pressure cuff off of Sheridan's arm. She agreed to take off her coat, allowing the paramedic to examine her.

John, who was watching nearby, was pleased to see that while she was slender, she did appear to be at a healthy weight and had no visible injuries.

Now that they were outside, he had a better chance to study his unexpected guest and savior more closely. Judging by her overall appearance, he mentally placed her somewhere between the ages of seven and ten. It was difficult to estimate her age with more accuracy, for several reasons.

For all intensive purposes, she looked like a young child. She was..._adorable,_ for one thing. Light colored eyes, a small nose, and a mass of curls that most people would envy. Her features, in addition to her small stature, were such that it made people feel the instinctive need to protect her. However, there were certain aspects that made her stand out from the hundreds of children that John had seen over the years.

For one, while she appeared reasonably healthy, he could not help noticing the absence of "baby fat" that most children seemed to have. This caused her to have more of a mature appearance, as was evident by her prominent cheek bones.

Her expression, too, was very unlike other children. She seemed to be more aware of her surroundings, and her eyes seemed to convey that she had seen more of the world than most people thrice her age, and she was all the wiser for it.

_It was almost like seeing an adult's soul inside a child's body..._

The paramedic looked at John. "Looks like she's very healthy! Height and weight looks good. Her heart rate is within normal limits, and there are no outward signs of trauma. No fever or other symptoms. But her blood pressure is a little low." The paramedic looked back towards Sheridan. "When was the last time you ate?"

Sheridan looked down quickly and stayed silent as she sat on the gurney, her feet not quite reaching the floor.

"Sheri?" John asked, kneeling over until he was face-to-face with the girl. "When did you eat last?"

Sheridan sniffed dismissively and looked away.

"_Sheri…_"

"Two days ago." Sheridan whispered shamefacedly.

"_Two days?_" John exclaimed loudly. Sheridan flinched and he willed himself to be calm.

_Scaring the girl would not be productive. Although he would have plenty to say to her parents when he finally met them!_

John managed to smile despite his frustration towards the absent parents. "Well, the good news is that you don't have to go to the hospital for that. What would you like to eat? We can get you biscuits, crackers, fruit…"

"Eating is _boring!_" Sheridan muttered derisively, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

John rolled his eyes in exasperation_. Just like dealing with Sherlock! _ "Well, unless you want to go to the hospital, you are going to have to eat something."

"_Fine!_" Sheridan mumbled, conceding defeat.

"I'll get something for her." Donovan offered. She quickly left the area and headed towards Hopkins's car.

Clarky walked over to the group. A piece of gauze covered the cut on his head. "The paramedics said I looked fine to them, but they want me to go to the hospital to check for a concussion." Clarky shrugged. "I told them my head took all the punishment, so no worries! Good thing I'm so hard-headed!"

Sheridan giggled. Clarky looked over at her and winked good-naturedly, obviously pleased he was able to make her laugh.

Donovan returned seconds later with a bottle of water and a box of biscuits. "Always keep these in my purse, just in case." She explained, offering the items to John.

"Thanks, Sally." John replied, taking the items from her and handing them to a reluctant Sheridan. "Now, Sheri, eat this! Every bite! I don't want to see one crumb."

Sheridan wore the martyred look of a child who was asked to accomplish an impossible task, but she obediently tore open the package and began nibbling on a chocolate biscuit. Her casual manner still unsettled John.

_Come to think of it, how did she get into the flat, anyway?_

"So, Sheri." Donovan asked politely. "Where are you from?"

"Do you mean now, or originally?" Sheridan asked, finishing the first biscuit and quickly moving to the second.

"Both, I guess." Donovan replied.

Sheridan cocked her head to the side, considering. "I was born in America. In Boston."

"Another American!" Clarky said triumphantly. "I'm not alone!"

"And you are from Tennessee, right? From the Appalachian area." Sheridan asked, taking a sip of water.

Clarky looked down at the ebony-haired girl. "How did you know that?"

"My dad has been teaching me how to tell where people are from by the way they talk. And your wallet is sticking out of your back pocket. It has a big orange 'T' on it, like the University of Tennessee, in Knoxville." Sheridan replied calmly. "I lived in Georgia for a few months, and I saw a basketball game on the television once. Tennessee was playing. That's how I knew."

Clarky smiled brightly. "Kid's smart! Must be an American thing!"

"Must be a _female_ thing!" Donovan shot back jokingly.

John smirked before turning his attention back to the girl. Wonder of wonders, she was now on her third biscuit. "So, Sheri, who have you been living with?" John asked quietly.

"Until last year, I lived with my mom. Now, I have been living with my dad. We travel around a lot, because he is busy, but he always tries to spend time with me. He's a great dad!" Sheridan replied happily. "He's _very _smart, and he's teaching me to be as smart as he is! And to fight off the headaches I get and everything!"

Donovan, who had been alarmed by the child's earlier fear of hospitals, relaxed slightly_. _

Normally, a fear of hospitals suggested abuse, as the victims were often hesistant to be examined, whether out of fear or shame about their injuries. However, Sheridan had no problems being examined by a paramedic, and her fear seemed to stem from hospitals as a place where something tramatic had happened, not because she was afraid of having someone find out she was being abused.

If the child _was_ being mistreated, it was most certainly _not_ by her father. Everything in Sheridan's manner and tone revealed one thing; she worshipped her father. Her ocean-like eyes practically sparkled with pride and love as she spoke about him.

_But where the hell was he? _ _Why was Sheri all alone? _

_And what was that last bit about headaches?_

"And where is your mother? Does she travel too?" Donovan asked kindly.

"Not anymore." Sheridan said sadly, looking down. "Now it's just Dad and I. We are hiding from the Bad Men."

"_Bad men?_ What _bad men?_" Clarky asked, head cocked to the side in confusion.

"Bad Men who want to kill Dad and take me away!" Sheridan sighed. "They are _everywhere!_ And they won't stop! So Dad is trying to stop them!"

The adults looked at each other in confusion. "And where is your father now, honey?" Donovan asked cautiously.

"I don't know!" Sheridan admitted, looking forlorn. "I think the Bad Men may have him! He might be lost, and I don't know where he could be!"

John flinched at Sheridan's sad expression. "What's your father's name, Sheri? Maybe we can find him for you."

Sheridan shook her head quickly. "Dad says I can't tell anyone! If I do, bad things could happen, and people could get hurt. Besides, I _promised_ him!"

Anderson looked at Donovan in dismay. An unspoken question passed between them.

_Why would anyone ever make his daughter promise never to reveal his name to anyone?_

John decided to try again. "Sheri, I'm sure your father will understand. What if he _is_ lost somewhere and can't find you? He's probably frantic right now. I bet he's out there looking for you, and he's worried sick." John looked at the girl hopefully. "Or maybe he fell and is injured somewhere. You don't want him to be without medical attention, do you?"

Sheridan shook her head resolutely. "You don't understand! Dad would rather _die_ than put others in danger!"

_And Dad is not going to be happy with me that I was so careless! I never should have taken a nap!_

_Dad is right. Sleeping is stupid! Especially when one is on a case!_

"Would you rather him _die_?" Anderson asked disbelievingly. His tactless comment earned him a well-placed elbow in the side by an angry Donovan.

Sheridan sighed wearily.

_No, I don't want Dad to die! He's all I have! But that would mean telling the Secret! How can I tell the Secret? _

_But what if Uncle John is right? What if Dad is sick, or injured, and what if no one helped him? _

Sheridan quickly went through the various scenarios in her head. Now almost everyone who knew Dad had seen her, and it was only a matter of time before someone figured out who she _really_ was, and who she was related to.

But in the meantime, her dad was still missing, and she was afraid of losing him, even more so than him being angry with her for breaking her promise.

In the end, there was only one logical conclusion.

_I have to tell! _

_But these people would probably not believe me anyway. They may think I am lying, or confused. Maybe even Uncle John won't believe me! So what should I do?_

John observed the internal struggle Sheridan was in. He waited patiently. Either she would tell them, or she wouldn't. But whatever she decided, he would do everything in his power to help her.

It's not _her_ fault that she was in this position!

Sheridan looked pensive for a moment, as if she was considering something. "Do any of you know how to contact Mr. Mycroft Holmes?"

Her question was greeted with disbelieving stares from most of the adults.

"_Excuse me_?" Donovan squeaked out.

"Who's that?" Clarky asked curiously.

"Mycroft Holmes tells people he has a minor position in the British Government, but Dad says that's a lie. Sometimes, he _is_ the British Government!" Sheridan explained as she finished off the last biscuit. "Dad says he carries an umbrella around with him everywhere, too, and it has hidden weapons in it! Normally, if you want to meet him, you have to wait for him to come and take you off the street, but I can't wait that long! Do any of you know how to contact him?"

"Uh, _what?_" Clarky said, looking shocked. "Who is this guy she is talking about? Some sort of crazy person who escaped from Bedlam? Or the _Penguin?_"

"I'll explain later, Clarky." Donovan promised, her eyes still trained on Sheridan. "But it will take some time. Basically, Mr. Holmes _does_ work for the government, although we still don't know what he does, exactly. We used to work with his brother until a year before you came."

Clarky nodded slowly, even though he looked like he was far from satisfied by Donovan's explanation.

"Why do you want to talk to Mr. Holmes, Sheri?" John asked.

"Because he can help me find Dad!" Sheridan said triumphantly. "And he can help me hide until we find him! I have to hide all the time, or the Bad Men will find me and take me to Moriarty!"

"_Wait!_ Hold it!" Anderson waved his hand, silencing the girl. "Are you saying _Moriarty _is after you? What for? You're just a child!"

"I can't tell you that!" Sheridan whispered morosely. "Mom said _never_ to tell anyone!"

"Why not?" John asked, putting his hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Lots of reasons!" Sheridan mumbled miserably, looking down at the ground again.

"Sheri, that doesn't help us." John said, trying to speak encouragingly to the girl. "Is there a reason you are afraid?"

"_Well,_" Sheridan considered how she was going to phrase one of her fears. "I…I want you to like me! And you may not like me after I tell you!"

It was always Sheridan's secret belief that she may be viewed with distrust should she reveal her family origins.

_After all, if Moriarty is a monster, wouldn't people view her as a monster, too?_

John, for his part, was shocked at the child's statement. But he could see that she meant what she said, even though he couldn't begin to fathom the reason why.

_After all, why was he so important to her that she wanted him to like her? She doesn't even know him!_

"Sheri, I happen to like you a lot. You are a brave, intelligent, and beautiful little girl. How can I not like you?" John said kindly.

Sheridan shook her head miserably. "You don't _understand_!"

"Then tell me, and I'll try to understand! But if you know about Mr. Holmes, you know he wouldn't see us unless we have a reason. And I _need_ to tell him." John prompted softly.

Sheridan looked at John, her strange bluish-grey eyes staring at him, as if she was reading his soul. Once again, John's heart ached as he remembered his lost friend.

_Has it come to this? Am I seeing Sherlock everywhere now, even in the eyes of this child?_

"If I tell you, you won't be angry?" Sheridan whispered softly.

John smiled patiently. "No, Sheri. I won't be angry. I promise!"

Sheri absently tugged on her scarf, which John now observed was a rich purple shade that complimented her skin tone well. She frowned as she considered the options available to her. John waited calmly, knowing that pushing her would be counter-productive at this point.

"I'll tell you." Sheridan whispered. The girl paused briefly before continuing. "Moriarty…well, he's...my uncle."

John froze, along with everyone else, with the exception of Clarky, who now looked _very _confused.

_Was it possible?_

"So…your mother is _Danielle Morray?_" John whispered.

Sheridan nodded sadly. "Would you please call Mycroft now?"

* * *

Thirty minutes later, John walked through the mostly deserted halls of the Diogenes Club. Sheridan walked beside him, clutching his hand and occasionally glancing up at John, who gave her encouraging smiles as they walked on.

The few patrons who were there looked disapproving at John. After noticing Sheridan, they looked scandalized that a child was even _allowed_ to be there. No doubt they believed she was going to break their precious rule regarding silence.

Despite the glares she was getting, Sheridan appeared unconcerned at being the object of scrutiny. She seemed to already know about the Diogenes Club and the rules the members went by. Thus, the girl didn't make a sound as she walked through the opulent building towards Mycroft's private suite with John at her side.

After Sheridan's revelation, John was quick to reach into his coat pocket for his cell phone in order to call the secured number to contact Mycroft, only to find that it wasn't there.

Before he could race back into the flat to look for it, Sheridan had sheepishly pulled it out of her own coat pocket, explaining that she had found John's phone in the kitchen when she had "entered" earlier and used it to summon Lestrade and company.

_Well, __that__ explained how the Yard received the message, anyway. _

_But how did she know who Lestrade was in the first place? All his contact information said was "Greg Lestrade!" There was no mention of the Yard under his contact information!_

When asked how she managed to get in, Sheridan blushed and promised she would explain later after talking to Mycroft. Further attempts at questioning was met with silence, so John accepted her response for the time being, reminding himself that the girl's safety was more important than getting answers. Just standing outside the flat made him feel vulnerable, as though he could be shot at any moment.

_How much more perilous was it for Sheridan? Even if she was handy with firearms!_

After dialing the number that he had committed to memory, John was quickly patched through to Not-Anthea. In as few words as possible, John explained the situation.

Not-Anthea apparently knew that a situation occurred at Baker Street, and was aware that Moran was now in custody. She was also aware that a child was found at the scene. When John told her of Sheridan's request, Not-Anthea instructed him to stay where he was, and a car would be by shortly.

A few minutes later, a black car pulled up at the curb, and Not-Anthea herself stepped out, Black Berry in hand. Another car pulled up to the curve, and several men wearing non-descript suits and hidden gun holsters converged on the scene, no doubt seeing to their fallen comrades and acting in a clean-up capacity. Ignoring them, Not-Anthea directed John to bring the child to Mycroft, who had been informed and was waiting for them at the Diogenes Club.

Donovan demanded to come along as well, as she also became concerned for the child's welfare and was unwilling to let her face Mycroft without at least one Yarder with her. She was also secretly hoping to get more information about the girl's family, in order to help the Yard locate her father.

Hopkins had stayed behind to help Lestrade finish up the investigation, while Anderson elected to drive Clarky to the hospital for x-rays, just in case. Sheridan had been slightly distressed by this development, until Clarky assured her that he was just going over to the hospital for x-rays only and not to stay.

John caught Donovan's nervous glance and nodded to her.

_The girl definitely did not like hospitals! That was a bit not good!_

Perhaps later they could find out why.

As they rode over to the Diogenes Club, Donovan attempted to ask Sheridan a few more questions. Although she didn't go into too much detail, Sheridan did tell them a few more things about her dad. About how he kept her safe from the Bad Men, how he taught her things since she couldn't go to school yet until Moriarty was behind bars, and one particular story about how Dad once traveled through a snow storm to get medicine for her because she got so sick she "couldn't breathe without hurting."

When asked questions about her mother, Sheridan fell silent, her unusual eyes looking misty, as though she was fighting back tears. Still, she managed to remain calm.

Through this brief exchange, Donovan made a few preliminary observations to herself.

_One, the child was remarkably intelligent and self-reliant for her age. _

_Two, the girl absolutely refused to talk about her mother. Either she knew where Ms. Morray was hiding and was warned not to say anything, or, more than likely, something had already happened to her, which explained why Sheri was not concerned with finding her. _

_Three, the girl was treated very well by her father, and she loved him, which explains her distress at not being able to find him. _

She hoped that Mycroft Holmes, with his powers of deduction and his innumerable resources, could shed some light on these questions and hopefully reunite the child with her father.

_The alternative would be unthinkable._

When they arrived, Sheridan was quick to retrieve a pair of oversized sunglasses from her coat pocket before walking into the building, even though the skies were overcast. The glasses hid her eyes and the upper portion of her face.

When John asked her why she put them on, Sheridan said she didn't want Mycroft to "deduce her secret right away."

John and Donovan were rendered speechless by her answer.

_So the girl already knew about the talent that ran in the Holmes family! It seemed that her mother must have told her._

_This should make things interesting!_

Finally, after being lead through the halls with their lush carpets and sleek wooden wall panel, the group came to a halt. Not-Anthea wordlessly opened the doors and walked in, gesturing for the others to follow her.

If John was impressed with Sheridan's bravery before, he found himself amazed by the way she walked into the darkened room without hesitation.

Most people who first met Mycroft Holmes were not able to say the same.

* * *

Mycroft was sitting in one of the expensive leather chairs flanking the marble fireplace. The curtains were drawn, leaving the room in shadows. There was a fire burning in the marble fireplace to guard against the cold outside, and it casted subtle bursts of light around the room.

Upon entering, Not-Anthea walked across the room and took a seat in a chair close to the wall, typing away on her Blackberry. The rest of the group hung back near the door.

"Greetings, John, Sergeant Donovan." Mycroft said pleasantly. "It is good to see you both!"

"Good morning, Mycroft." John said, smiling thinly. "I hope we didn't interrupt any important plans you had."

"Oh, nothing that couldn't be rescheduled." Mycroft said serenely. "Merely a meeting with diplomats from Pakistan and India concerning their nuclear programs. Hardly worth mentioning." He smiled benignly. "So, I understand that you brought along a guest for me?"

"Yes." John said calmly, more for Sheridan's benefit than for Mycroft's.

Sheridan, meanwhile, had let go of John's hand and was quietly standing behind him and Donovan, out of Mycroft's direct line of vision.

_Poor child_, John thought to himself.

Despite his charming demeanor, Mycroft was an intimidating figure at the best of times.

And this was certainly _not_ the best of times!

"Ah, wonderful!" Mycroft said pleasantly. "I extend my greetings to you as well, Sheridan. I am indeed _honored_ to meet the daughter of Danielle Morray."

"You knew Mom?" Sheridan asked curiously, still hiding behind John.

Mycroft spoke in what he hoped was a calming tone. _It was rare he dealt with children, after all._ _And_ _Sherlock didn't count. _ "Of course I did. I had the privilege of meeting her many years ago. She is a very remarkable woman. A true genius when it came to computers. You see, I am also aware of her other activities, especially her efforts to protect people who have incurred the wrath of your uncle and had to go into hiding without governmental assistance."

Mycroft stopped for a moment before continuing. "I was saddened when I heard a rumor that Danielle had died last year. Despite our...disagreements on certain matters, I have always admired her tenacity and skills. I _was_ hoping that rumor wasn't true. Although judging by your use of the word '_knew_' as opposed to '_know_,' it appears as though my hopes were overly optimistic." Mycroft finished calmly.

John was dumbfounded.

_Danielle Morray was actually dead?_

"It's true." Sheridan confirmed sadly. "Mom's gone. She died at a _hospital_. From cancer." Sheridan added significantly, shuddering slightly. "I promised her I would stay with her. I left her room for only a few minutes, to get her some flowers, because I know how much she liked them…"

Sheridan stopped abruptly. When she spoke again, her voice was slightly strained. "Dad said that Mom would understand, that she wouldn't want me to be sad. Dad says I shouldn't feel guilty. But sometimes I do. I shouldn't have left her alone! _No one_ should die alone!"

Donovan reached back and sympathetically put her arm around Sheridan's shoulder. _So this poor child went through the death of her mother._ _That explained why she didn't like hospitals. _

_Her mother died in one. _

"I'm sure your daddy is right, honey. He sounds like a very smart man." Donovan said kindly.

Sheridan nodded sadly. "Thank you, Sally."

John, meanwhile, was still lost in his thoughts.

_If Morray was dead all this time, then who was going after Moriarty?_

Mycroft nodded his head sympathetically (although with a Holmes, it was difficult to tell the difference). "I concur with Sergeant Donovan's assessment. I will admit I _was_ surprised when John called, of course. After your mother went to America, she disappeared altogether. No one knew what became of her." Mycroft said shrewdly. "But that was your mother's talent, wasn't it? She could hack any system, and create any identity for herself, or her clients. You can do that too, can't you?"

Sheridan nodded, her face still hidden in John's shadow. She knew what Mycroft was _really_ asking. "My code name is _Chimera._"

"Really?" Mycroft said mildly. "As in _the Chimera_? The hacker who broke into the Pentagon's security system?"

"Mom grounded me for that one!" Sheridan protested sullenly, suddenly sound exactly like what she was. A young child. "She took away my computer for a month! I was so _bored!_"

"Were you also the same _Chimera_ who put the birthday balloon wallpaper on my personal computer?" Mycroft asked.

Sheridan frowned. "Dad told me to! He said you need a little chaos in your orderly existence every now and then. Also, I think he just wanted me to annoy you a little, because he said you don't like it when people know about your birthday." Sheridan defended quietly, still standing behind John for protection.

John chuckled at Sheridan's explanation. Somehow, the revelation that the infamous hacker _Chimera_ was just a child failed to surprise him overmuch. Children nowadays _were_ growing up with electronics in their hands. And the little trick with Mycroft's computer sounded like something a child would pull.

From the slightly relaxed look on Mycroft's face, John hoped that Mycroft would see the humor behind Sheridan's little antics and not resort to treating her as though she was a criminal, despite her lineage.

_If so, he's going to have to deal with me first!_

Donovan looked over at the girl in amazement. "Wait a minute! Sheri's a computer criminal?"

"Hardly, Sergeant Donovan. More of a well-meaning prankster, like our mutual friend, Mr. Douglas. When she hacked the Pentagon, all she did was deliver proof that one of their agents was secretly selling weapons to a hostile party. Without authorization, of course. Her actions probably saved several lives. She also made some grammatical corrections to a couple of classified documents, but nothing more serious than that. She did similiar actions with other high-security systems that she hacked into, in order to expose wrong-doing or to engage in corrective activities." Mycroft explained.

"Corrective activities?" Donovan asked incredulously.

Mycroft nodded. "Once, the _Chimera_ broke into the NASA mainframe, in order to tell Mission Control in Houston that they made a mistake in their calculations. The Americans were helping to monitor and land a damaged communications satellite in conjunction with Europe in order to bring it down safely. However, the Americans were not converting the measurements to the metric system, and thus were measuring the distance by miles and not kilometers. Had the _Chimera_ not pointed it out to them in time, then the satelite likely would have burnt up during re-entry."

John sighed, feeling relieved. Despite his lack of expression, John could tell that Mycroft meant the girl no harm.

Mycroft glanced over at John as though he knew what he was thinking before addressing Sheridan, who was still hiding behind him and Donovan. "So, Sheridan Morray, what do you wish to talk to me about?"

Sheridan frowned as she stepped to the side of John so that Mycroft could see her slightly better. "I need your help! I know you are after Moriarty. Dad is after Moriarty, too. He is helping to put the Bad Men in jail, so Moriarty will eventually go to jail too, and I won't have to hide anymore!"

"So it is your _father_ then, and not your mother, who is responsible for taking down Moriarty's lieutenants." Mycroft replied, leaning forward in the chair. "I take that means that after your mother's death, your father became the new _Raven._"

"Yes!" Sheridan confirmed. "But only to confuse Moriarty into thinking Mom was still alive! If Moriarty knew Dad was _Raven_, then he will hurt Dad's friends! Dad says the only way everyone will be safe is if Moriarty and all who work for him are in jail. Then we can come out of hiding!"

Mycroft leaned back casually in his chair, assuming an air of boredom. "And now your father is missing, and you wish to enlist my aid to locate him."

"Yes!" Sheridan said breathlessly. "I can't find him on my own! _Please?_" Sheridan's voice was calm, but it carried a hint of apprehension in it.

Mycroft appeared to muse the facts in his head for a moment. He decided to try to acquire more information by feigning indifference to the girl's plight. "Well, I can't make any promises, of course. My influence in these matters is rather limited."

"But Dad said that you _are_ the British Government!" Sheridan protested. "He told me that you can do anything! Make people disappear, get information, and go after bad people! I _know_ you have the power! _You_ know it too! You are just trying to make me upset so I may blurt out something I shouldn't! But I _won't_, no matter what you deduce about me!"

Mycroft gazed at the girl wonderingly. She couldn't be older than eight or nine at the most, but already she possessed remarkable intellect and instinct.

Despite the fact that she kept her eyes hidden behind those ridiculous sunglasses, he could see that she had hair the color of onyx, which differed greatly from Ms. Morray's red hues. In fact, except for a few subtle hints (the fact that the girl had a liking to leather jackets and computers), Mycroft would have a hard time believing that she _was_ Ms. Morray's daughter, since she didn't seem to resemble her at all.

_And yet she was oddly familiar, somehow…_

Sheridan spoke up again. "Look, I _know_ you want something from me in exchange for your help! I can help you with the CCTV system! I have information about Moriarty's group! I'll even work for you, for the rest of my life, if you want! _Whatever_ you want! All I want to do is find Dad!" Sheridan paused, her voice laced with quiet desperation. "_Please!_ I'll do _anything_!"

"So you are willing to commit yourself to a life of servitude to the Crown? For your _father?_ Ah, child! Hasn't anyone taught you that caring is a disadvantage?" Mycroft said quietly, curious as to what her response would be.

Sheridan nodded. "_I know it is!_ But I never had a dad before until just after Mom died, and he's the only one I'm ever going to have! I lost Mom, and I didn't have anyone else, till Dad came! And I will _not_ lose Dad! Not as long as I can do something to stop it!"

Mycroft watched, amazed and slightly impressed by the girl's declaration. He had expected her to burst into tears, and yet she was declaring her intentions with an air of confidence and force of will that could have only have been inherited from her mother.

Ignoring the glares he was getting from John and Sally, who obviously did not approve of Mycroft making the child beg, Mycroft kept his gaze fixed solely at Sheridan.

A million details about the girl became known to him. American, yet moved around continuously, which explains the lack of a discernible ascent. Yet well educated. The child also spent a few hours on the streets of London before making her way to John, as evident by her rumpled and slightly dirty clothes. Finger tips shows that she spends countless hours on a keyboard.

And yet all these facts were of miniscule importance to Mycroft. Because he sensed something that took president over everything else.

_The girl was __hiding__ something! Something so profound that it had the power to change the direction of Moriarty's game. _

_That much he was certain of. _

Mycroft silently wished that the child would take off those sunglasses so he could see her eyes. Even though he wasn't the sentimental type, he believed that the eyes, while not necessarily the "windows of the soul," were a great indicator of a person's truthfulness.

He then wondered if Sheridan had the same soulless black eyes as her infamous uncle, or if she had the warm chestnut-brown and golden eyes of her mother.

_He would prefer the latter._

"Well, I _still_ may not be able to help you. For one thing, I don't know who it is I am to look for. Who is your father? Your answers earlier seem to indicate that he knows me. Does he work for her Majesty's Government? Maybe MI-6? Or is he from one of those agencies in America, like the CIA?" Mycroft asked curiously.

Sheridan took a deep breath as realization came over her.

Mycroft would help her, but _only_ if she revealed who her father was.

_And once she did, then Uncle John would know too!_

This was the moment she dreaded the most, but she _had_ to see it through, if she was ever going to help Dad!

Finding the resolve she needed, Sheridan stepped away from the protective wall that Donovan and John had formed beside her. She walked briskly over the Parisian carpet until she stopped a couple of feet away from Mycroft.

Sheridan then pulled off her sunglasses, revealing her profile in its entirety. Her face, previously hidden from view, was now silhouetted by the soft light of the room, allowing Mycroft to see her completely.

Her eyes, those strange pools of liquid silver, blue, and green, found Mycroft's dark blue ones.

"You are Mycroft Holmes, aren't you? You can see things no one else can! That's your gift! _So you tell me!_" She challenged softly but heatedly, folding her arms across her chest.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, Sheridan finally faces off with Mycroft! Will Mycroft figure out that Sheridan is Sherlock's daughter? Will the famous Ice Man finally loose his legendary cool? And how will everyone else react to the news?

All hell is about to break loose, and someone has some _serious_ explaining to do!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." If I did, Mycroft would realize that his brother can be sneakier than him! LOL!

**John Watson**-Peaceful Defender, I hate cliffhangers! Why don't you save the poor girl the trouble and tell us who her father is, so we can find him?

**Sally Donovan-**Yes! Look at her, Peaceful Defender! She's lost, alone, and worried sick! And Mycroft is making her beg, too! _That pompous bastard!_ I don't know _why_ we didn't just take the kid to the Yard in the first place!

**Peaceful Defender** (doing her best to look innocent, and failing miserably)-You know, that reminds me! Sally, you have a degree in child psychology! Just out of curiousity, what is your assessment of Sheridan?

**Sally Donovan**-What do you mean?

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, we know she's had a pretty difficult life, with Moriarty always trying to kidnap her and all. But based on your conversations with her, what type of relationship does she have with her father? Is he cold? Abusive? Emotionally distant?

**Sally Donovan** (snorts in disbelief)-Haven't you been paying attention!? The poor girl lost her mother to cancer, and has spent her life being hunted down by Moriarty, of all people! Yes, I think we can safely say the child is not exhibiting normal responses comparale to children her age, but I think it is due to the fact that she is intelligent and resilient. Remarkably so, in my opinion!

**Peaceful Defender**-That doesn't answer my question.

**Sally Donovan**-I'm trying to make a point! Despite everything going on, the girl doesn't seem to be in shock, the way you would expect a child to be in these circumstances. And have you seen what she says about her father? I have never, in all my years on the Force, seen anyone show this degree of affection for a parent! And no child who has been abused or neglected would ever love her father the way that Sheridan loves hers! There must be a reason for it! I, for one, think the man, whoever he is, must be a wonderful father! He should probably teach a class on parenting!

**Peaceful Defender** (talking quietly to herself and shaking her head in disbelief)-_Must not laugh! Must not laugh! Must not laugh! Must not laugh! Must not laugh! _

**John Watson**-So you can understand why we need to find him, right? Sheridan obviously loves her father for a reason! He must be very good to her, or she wouldn't be so desperate to find him! I mean, she is putting her trust in total strangers, for crying out loud!

**Peaceful Defender**-_Are_ you total strangers to her? She seems to know a lot about all of you, doesn't she?

**John Watson** (scowls)-Are you saying we _know_ Sheridan's father?

**Peaceful Defender**-Think about it! But don't take too long, because I'm pretty sure Mycroft will figure it out quickly.

**John Watson **(smirks)-I bet the poor sod works for the British Government! Well, Mycroft will _definitely_ sack him for having a child with someone who took over the CCTV system years ago! I bet that by the time Mycroft is through, the poor guy will probably have to fake his death or something to keep from being locked up somewhere!

**Peaceful Defender-**_Uh_…you know what? Why don't I just go ahead and post the next chapter? I mean, my readers have been super nice to me, with my story being followed, favorited, and reviewed. They make me feel like I can _actually_ write! They have encouraged me, and I think they deserve an additional chapter! So let's wait and see what happens..._now!_


	20. Chapter 19

**Warning: At last! A major secret is revealed to our characters! Lots of yelling, a few death threats, and one very inappropriate idea from Anderson! **

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Insanity**

"If the majority are insane, the sane must go to the hospital." Horace Mann, _Thoughts_

* * *

Of all the times that he had seen him, John never saw so much emotion exposed on Mycroft's face, let alone see the government official completely shut down like _this_.

Mycroft's blue eyes widened in unadulterated shock as he stared at the little girl in front of him. He paled visibly as he slowly rose from his chair and stooped down until he was literally face-to-face with Sheridan, who didn't flinch away.

They remained that way for a few minutes, still as statutes engaged in a silent conference, while everyone else waited breathlessly. Mycroft looked like he could pass out at any moment, while Sheridan gazed back at him, unafraid yet wary.

By this wordless interaction, John deduced that Sheridan's father somehow knew Mycroft, and Mycroft knew him.

_A government operative, perhaps?_ _Maybe someone who was part of the security detail that traveled with Danielle Morray overseas?_

But if so, why did Mycroft looked so damned _surprised?_

Surely, even if it was against protocol, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that an agent would fall in love with Ms. Morray?

Puzzled, John glanced back at Not-Anthea, who caught John looking at her and cocked an eyebrow, as if to say _"Don't ask me! I don't know what's going on either!"_

"_How old are you_?" Mycroft asked Sheridan finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Eight. My birthday is on June 12th." Sheridan answered quietly, her earlier defiance vanished. "And before you ask, I was born a month premature. Mom said I was restless, just like Dad. Dad told me he was born early, too."

"I see." Mycroft said significantly, slowly getting up and settling back down in his chair. He suddenly let out a loud chuckle. "_Well!_ This _complicates_ matters, don't you think?"

"I know." Sheridan admitted softly. "This is uncomfortable for me, too. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone yet, until Dad could come and tell you himself. I broke my promise."

"_Oi!_" Donovan interrupted. "I'm sorry if I can't keep up, but could _someone_ explain what's going on here!?"

"I agree!" John grunted. "Mycroft, does Sheridan's father work for you or something?"

For some reason, Mycroft smirked briefly, as though he found the situation vastly amusing. "Sergeant Donovan, John, as usual, you _see_ but you do not _observe!_ Look closely at Sheridan. Ask yourselves! Who does she remind you of? _Who_ _does she look like?_"

John stared at Mycroft, then back at Sheridan. What did Mycroft see that they had missed? What was so surprising about Sheridan that it literally threw the government official out of his usual pompous persona?

_Think logically, John._ Sherlock's voice whispered from the back of John's subconscious. _Eliminate the impossible. Look at the facts._

_Ok. Sure. So what are the facts?_

Sheridan is the daughter of Moriarty's sister. But Mycroft already knew _that._ He only became distraught when Sheridan asked him to guess the identity of her father.

_Did Sheridan resemble him?_

He remembered the pictures of Danielle Morray, and Sheridan did not resemble her that much in appearance. So it was likely that she greatly resembled her father.

_But who was he?_

John took a fresh look at Sheridan.

_What was it about her that shocked Mycroft so much? _

She was pale. So pale, in fact, that her skin seemed to glow with the same luminosity of the moon. But so many people had ivory complexions, too.

She had dark, curly hair that parted naturally on one side and was so long that it went past her shoulders, but that was hardly a remarkable trait. She certainly had a lot of it, and it was disheveled, as if the wind itself tried to steal her hair off her head.

Her eyes…

_Her eyes._

_Bloody hell!_ _Why didn't he see it before!?_

John stared at Sheridan, who was regarding him with those strange-colored eyes. In the dim light of the room, John could see the glints of blue, green, and grey, like a thunderstorm reflected over the teal waves of the ocean. Changeable eyes, with their color impossible to determine.

He had seen those _exact_ eyes before, on _another_ person!

_Well done, John!_ Sherlock's voice whispered. _Once you eliminate the impossible…_

"You're _Sherlock's_ daughter, aren't you?" John whispered, awed by the revelation.

Sheridan nodded enthusiastically. "_Yes!_ Sherlock's my dad!" She seemed very happy and relieved that John had caught on so quickly.

"_Wait!_ Hold on! Everyone, just _freeze_!" Donovan shouted. "Are you saying what I _think _you're saying? That _Sheri_ is…" Donovan stopped, unable to finish her question.

"Yes, Sergeant. You heard correctly. Sheridan is Sherlock's daughter." Mycroft said wearily, looking rather off-balanced, which he clearly was not used to.

"How can you be _sure_?" Donovan asked, looking back at Sheridan in confusion.

"Because she looks _exactly_ as my brother did, when he was her age." Mycroft explained. Then he smiled again. "Well, we never allowed his hair to grow as long as Sheridan's, of course! But in all other respects, Sheridan resembles my brother in every other aspect. Sheridan, did you inherit your father's gifts as well?"

Sheridan nodded. "I know that Sally spent the morning with paperwork, because of the ink blotches on the cuffs of her sleeves, and that she ate pancakes for breakfast, from the syrup stain her shirt, on her right sleeve. Except that it's not her shirt. It belongs to that other man, the one who looks like Shaggy from the Scooby Doo cartoons. _Anderson_, I think his name was. He must have given it to her a long time ago, because it's an old shirt, and it doesn't smell like him. I know that John went to Saint Catherine's earlier, but he doesn't work there. His rumpled appearance suggests he slept there last night. Probably to be with Ms. Morstan, although I got that after reading the message on his cell phone. Dad said that John really likes her! See the receipt sticking out of his coat pocket? He bought carnations for her at the hospital gift shop."

"_Bloody hell!_" Donovan muttered, eyes wide.

"Amazing!" John grinned.

_No wonder Mycroft was so surprised!_ Sherlock Holmes, the man who swore off emotions, once allowed himself to get close to a woman! A member of the opposite sex!

John remembered the "Scandal in Belgravia" case, when Mycroft made subtle jabs about Sherlock being a virgin. Apparently, that was not accurate, since somehow Sherlock managed to keep secret the fact that he once allowed himself to get close to someone!

_And the proof was right in front of him!_

"I could say more, but it upsets people sometimes, that I can tell so much about them by just looking at them. I apologize if I said anything that offended either of you." Sheridan admitted self-consciously, looking down at the floor.

Donovan looked at Sheridan again, then back at Mycroft. "I can't _believe_ I'm saying this, but she's too _polite_ to be Sherlock's daughter!"

"Sherlock used to be this way too, when he was younger." Mycroft observed. "Before he started pushing people away." Turning to his newly-discovered niece, Mycroft smiled indulgently. "Sheridan, did your mother tell you that Sherlock was your father?"

Sheridan nodded. _If she was going to be of any help to Dad, now was the time to be honest about everything. _"Yes! That's why I know who you are. I know all about John and Sally too, but Mom wasn't the one who told me."

Sheridan paused briefly, trying to think how best to phrase her next words. "_Dad_ was the one who told me about John and Sally. He also told me about how Moriarty tricked you and everyone else but John, but he says that was only because you aren't as smart as he is. But don't feel bad! _No one_ is as smart as Dad is!" Sheridan replied confidently.

Donovan's jaw dropped as the full import of Sheridan's words finally hit her. "Are you saying you _saw_ Sherlock? As in _recently_?"

Sheridan frowned in annoyance, but her voice remained calm. "Oh course! How do you think I got to England on my own? I _told_ you I traveled with Dad for the last year!"

The room started to spin for John as he finally realized what Sheridan was implying_. _

_It can't be! Not after all of this time! _

_There is no way Sherlock would do this!_

_Would he?_

In a daze, John walked over and crouched beside Sheridan, in a strange replay of the scene that had transpired earlier between her and Mycroft. "Sheri, are you saying your father, _Sherlock_, is still _alive_ and has been all this time?"

"_Yes_!" Sheridan said, starting to get impatient that it was taking the adults so long to process the information. She looked back at Mycroft, who still looked like he was one more surprise away from having a coronary. "So, are you going to help me find him or not?"

* * *

"When was the last time you saw my brother?" Mycroft inquired.

"A day and a half ago." Sheridan said. "Back at the hotel. He dressed up as a homeless man because he was going to follow one of the Bad Men." Sheridan looked down, as if ashamed. "He was supposed to return in a few hours, but he never came back!"

"He's been _alive_ all this time." Mycroft whispered, rubbing his temples.

Sheridan huffed, exasperated, from her chair. "We have already gone through this a _thousand times_ already!" Sheridan pointed over at John and Sally, who had to sit down after hearing Sheridan's rather startling revelation. "You don't see _them _repeating the obvious over and over, do you?"

"That's because we're still in shock, honey." Donovan whispered. After being told that Sherlock was still alive, Donovan had to sit down in one of the chairs in the room, or she ran the risk of collapsing on the floor. Her eyes still looked slightly glazed over, and she griped the sides of the armrests as though it was a lifeline.

"_I'm_ not in shock!" John muttered crossly.

Unlike Donovan, John seemed to digest the news fairly quickly, but was not particularly pleased by Sherlock's deception. Somehow, the tiniest part of him always held out hope that Sherlock was still alive.

It was a part that John often tried to ignore, but after thinking back, it began to make sense.

_If Danielle Morray was really dead, and Mycroft did not have anyone inside Moriarty's web, then who else could have succeeded in bringing down Moriarty's empire?_

_Apparently, only someone egotistical and devious enough to fake his own death!_

John seethed as his temper flared. "When I find Sherlock, I'm going to _kill him_!"

"_John!_" Donovan snapped, glancing significantly at Sheridan.

Sheridan may be the _Freak's_ kid, but that didn't stop Sally from liking her! Female stereotype be damned, but Sheri was just too _cute_ not to like!

And she was remarkably well-spoken and polite, _especially_ given who her father was! In fact, it was hard for Donovan to comprehend how Sherlock was just like Sheridan when he was her age.

_What possibly could have changed him? _

John sighed and leaned back in the rich leather upholstery of his chair. "Sorry, Sheri."

"It's alright, John. Your emotional reaction to this is quite normal, all things considered." Sheridan replied. She smiled guiltily at him. "Dad's going to be so _angry _with me that I told! He said you would think this was '_a bit not good_,' or something like that!"

"Well, _'Dad'_ will be a bit right!" John gritted through his teeth.

"May we focus on the problem at hand, if you would be so kind?" Mycroft said acidly. Then he turned back to Sheridan. "So Sherlock has been with you since he left England?"

"No. I didn't meet him until September of last year, when Mom died." Sheridan admitted. "And before you ask, no, I don't know how he faked his death. He won't talk about that day, because it upsets him too much, even though he won't admit it. He gets all quiet and just stares at the walls for hours. I think he gets nightmares, too, because he doesn't sleep much. So I don't know what he did, or where he was, until he came and got me."

"How did he learn about you?" John asked curiously.

"From Mom. She found out he was alive and sent a letter to where he was living at the time. She was dying then, and she didn't want me growing up with people who didn't understand me, or, even worse, being taken by Moriarty! She knew Dad could protect me! And she knew I could help Dad!" Sheridan related.

"So it was the two of you who were destroying Moriarty's empire." Mycroft observed. "After your mother's unfortunate and untimely demise, Sherlock took her identity as the _Raven_ and attacked Moriarty's web, using the resources and information that Ms. Morray had accumulated over the years. And you assisted him in his endeavor."

Sheridan shrugged. "All I did was hack into Moriarty's computer accounts and extracted the information we needed. Dad did everything else! And occasionally I would upload files so that we could travel under fake identities, or send you information when Dad asked me to."

Donovan looked slightly relieved_. _

_At least the Freak wasn't taking his daughter on stake-outs!_

John frowned. "Did _Sherlock_ teach you about guns and how to use them, Sheri?" John asked, leaning forward in his chair.

_Because if he found out Sherlock was teaching an eight-year old how to use a firearm, he was going to kick Sherlock's arse!_

Sheridan shook her head. "Oh no! Mom taught me about guns years ago! Right after the Bad Men tried to kidnap me!"

"_Kidnap you?_" Donovan asked, looking horrified.

"Uh-huh. I broke my arm climbing a tree when I was four, and Moriarty's men tried to steal me while I was at a hospital. Mom had to stop them, and later she taught me in case I needed to learn." Sheridan related, shuddering slightly when she mentioned the word "_hospital_."

"Did Sherlock say anything before he disappeared?" John asked, hoping to distract her.

_So the girl had __another__ bad experience at a hospital! No wonder she was scared earlier! _

Sheridan nodded. "He said something about Scotland Yard being on the wrong track. But I don't know what he meant. Dad usually doesn't like to share his plans. He likes to keep me guessing."

Sheridan paused, suddenly looking tired. "When I saw Moriarty's men in the hotel lobby, I packed up my emergency bag and left. I thought that maybe I could get Uncle Mycroft to help me, but I didn't know how to contact him. So I went to Baker Street and got in with the key Dad left with me to see if John's cell phone had the number. But it wasn't there, so I decided to wait until morning to leave, but I over-slept. That's when John found me."

Mycroft nodded. "You are, of course, aware of the problem with our security system."

"Yes." Sheridan said, tugging at her scarf again. "Dad knew that Moriarty has control of it. That's why you can't find him."

"Then it is imperative that we take back control of the system immediately. The sooner we have control, the sooner we can locate Moriarty and your father." Mycroft said, rising swiftly from his chair

Sheridan smiled. "If you can get me a laptop, I can take care of that. I would use Mom's, but someone tried to shoot Dad, back in Egypt, and ended up hitting the computer instead. He already memorized all the files, so we haven't gotten another one."

"Someone tried to shoot you and Sherlock?" John asked disbelievingly, leaning forward.

Sheridan shook her head. "Just Dad! I didn't see it happen. Dad keeps me at the hotels or safe houses when he goes after the Bad Men! And I get so _bored! _ He _never_ lets me help!" Sheridan finished, crossing her arms in front of her and looking extremely annoyed.

Despite himself, John grinned briefly. "I agree with him! Even if that is the _only_ thing I agree with Sherlock on! It would have been too dangerous for you!"

Sheridan shrugged. "I'm not as helpless as everyone thinks I am! I may be young, but I'm stronger than I look!"

"You may be, Sheridan. And I believe that your actions earlier justify that. But that is not up for debate right now." John answered back.

Sheridan sighed, then her face brightened as she was struck with an epiphany. "Well, I have an idea of how I can help! Dad said that by now, you know that Moriarty used a trap door in the firewall program to hack into your system, so you already know who the spy is in the Government! All you need is Moriarty's password to regain control. Mom told me a lot about Moriarty, so maybe I can help figure it out! And _that_ shouldn't be too dangerous for me!"

"Very well." Mycroft said. The formation of an actual plan had succeeded in making Mycroft calm once more as he lapsed back into his usual condescending attitude.

He turned to his assistant. "Melissa, please escort my niece to the safe house where Mr. Douglas is located. Apprise him of the situation and have him assist her in any way he can. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sir." Not-Anthea said, rising from her chair.

"I will send a security team with you. As of right now, this girl has code three status! Top priority! If _anything_ happens to her, please inform the team that there will be _severe _consequences for all involved!" Mycroft said ominously.

"Yes, Sir." Not-Anthea said before offering her hand to Sheridan. "Let's go, Sheri."

Sheridan lingered. "Where are _you_ going?" She asked Mycroft.

"I'll be accompanying Sergeant Donovan and Doctor Watson to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, where Colonel Moran is currently being treated for his injuries you inflicted on him earlier. I have a few questions for him."

Sheridan frowned. "I don't want to see _him_ again! I don't think he likes me, either!"

"Considering _where_ you shot him, I think his reaction is rather understandable, don't you agree?" Mycroft asked.

Sheridan shrugged. "He is a Bad Man! He was trying to kill John. That would have upset Dad!" Sheridan replied firmly. "I've never shot anyone before, and I don't like guns! Mom said they are dangerous, and never to use them unless it was an emergency! But I'm not _sorry_ I shot him!"

Mycroft nodded affirmation with Sheridan's words. "I'm sure John and Sherlock will both agree with you. But now you must leave."

"Ok." Sheridan answered, sliding off her chair. She paused and looked back at John and Donovan. "Thank you both for helping me earlier! I hope I see you later, when we find Dad!"

"Don't worry, honey. We'll find Sherlock." Donovan said soothingly.

"And we are going to give him a _big_ talking-to for leaving you alone!" John said semi-jokingly. "We'll take away his computer and ground _him _for a month!"

Sheridan giggled. "Dad would get so _bored!_"

John smirked humorlessly. "He'll deal with it!"

* * *

"You know what you said earlier? About grounding Sherlock for a month?" Donovan said, looking at John.

"Yeah. What about it?" John asked, cocking his head as he regarded the female Sergeant.

"Nothing, really. Actually, I was thinking about Greg. He may offer one of our holding cells to put Sherlock in, if you need a room to keep him in." Donovan snorted. "That is, if Greg doesn't drop dead when you tell him!"

"What do you mean, when _I tell him_? He's _your _boss! _You tell him!_" John protested.

"And incur the wrath of the Yard for causing Greg to die from a heart attack? I don't think so, you _prat_!" Donovan protested.

"_I'll_ tell him." Mycroft muttered irritably. "Sherlock's _my _brother, and I am responsible for cleaning up whatever mess he has created _this_ time!" Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed. "I swear, that boy will be the death of me! Traversing around, taking on Moriarty's empire by himself! He should have come to me!"

"In his defense, _he_ was not the one who spilled family secrets to Moriarty!" Donovan pointed out.

"In my defense, _I _didn't accuse him of kidnapping children or have him arrested!" Mycroft shot back.

"Well, in _everyone's _defense, neither of you made your best friend watch as you did a nose dive off a building, then fake your death and spent time running around the globe and putting your daughter in danger, so _shut it_, the both of you!" John protested angrily.

Mycroft snorted dismissively. "I'd advise you to calm down and think through the decision logically, John, instead of allowing your emotions to prejudice your views. Had Sherlock not faked his suicide, you would likely be dead from a sniper's bullet by now."

"_He still could have trusted me!_" John protested. "Don't you feel betrayed, at all? That your own brother made you think he was dead?"

"Of course not. He felt the need to protect you, so he did what he thought was necessary. A bit reckless, perhaps, but his intentions were noble in regards to you."

"_Bullocks!_" Donovan shot back. "I can understand him not coming to anyone from the Yard, or you, but _John_ has a right to feel betrayed!"

"And Sherlock also knows that John would have wanted to go with him, which would have put him at risk." Mycroft reasoned. "He actually acted _selflessly,_ for once."

"Not really! He had a bloody _kid_ with him!" Donovan muttered angrily.

"You _do_ recall what Sheridan said, Sergeant Donovan? She has spent her entire life on the run from Moriarty. It was no great hardship for her to continue doing so after her mother died. It probably saved her from being consumed by her grief, as well as gave her a purpose. Besides, it seems like my brother did not have a choice. It was either having her accompany him, or leave her to be eventually found by her homicidal uncle." Mycroft explained.

Donovan sighed. "How _did_ he do it, though? Faking his death, I mean. He _did_ jump off a building, didn't he?" She asked, staring back at John.

"I was _there_, Sally! Remember?" John muttered.

"So where has he been all this time? I mean, Sheri said that Sherlock got her after her mother died. In _September_. Sherlock jumped off that rooftop on May 4th! So that is almost four months unaccounted for! So where was he hiding during that time?" Sally pointed out.

"Excellent questions, Sergeant. And I hope to find a few answers here." Mycroft said as the black car pulled up to the curve beside St. Bartholomew's Hospital. "I do hope Colonel Moran is awake to speak to us. It can be so tedious waiting for someone to come out of surgery."

"Must be equally tiresome to get shot in the arse by a kid!" Donovan replied, smirking. "When he goes to prison, the other prisoners won't make it easy for him!"

"Just the leverage I had in mind, Sergeant." Mycroft replied. "Coming, John?"

"Yeah." John muttered listlessly. He rose out of his seat and climbed out of the car. For a moment, he stood still as he realized this was the first time he had been back to Bart's since that day when Sherlock allegedly jumped to his death.

Ever since that day, he was haunted by nightmares that were more vivid than all of his experiences at Afghanistan put together. He had lived with guilt that he had, inadvertently, been the reason why his friend decided that sacrificing his life was better than watch him get shot by Moriarty's sniper.

_And all the time that bloody, egotistical, selfish, uncaring git was still alive!_

"You alright, John?" Donovan asked, concern evident in her tone.

"I'm fine." John replied. "Not as hard to be here as I thought it would be. But then again, knowing that it was all a lie does wonders for any feelings of _shock_ I might be under!" John asked sarcastically.

Donovan smiled understandingly. "Come on, John. Let's go in and see if we can straighten out this mess, ok? I also want to check on Clarky and see how he's doing."

* * *

It turned out that Moran _was _awake, but definitely not in the mood to talk.

After thirty minutes of hearing every imaginable curse word and phrase known to man, Mycroft simply walked out of the room and arranged for Moran to be moved to a private holding facility, where others who engage in _interrogation_ techniques would (hopefully)have more luck with him.

Personally, Mycroft did not believe that such action would bare fruitation for a very long time. According to his file, Moran was one of Moriarty's most loyal employees, as well as his second-in-command. Cunning, level-headed, and trustworthy, Moran made it clear that he would not give out any information voluntarily. In many ways, Moran's steadfast devotion to Moriarty reminded Mycroft of the relationship that once existed between his brother and John.

So it would take a _long_ time to get Moran to talk.

But Mycroft had more important matters at hand than to waste his time trying to interrogate a ruthless sniper. He would let his men deal with him.

First, he needed to find his brother. _Alive._ Only then would he engage in thinking of ways to find a suitable punishment for the boy. Because despite what he had said earlier, he was still slightly annoyed at Sherlock.

Not about Sherlock managing to fake his death, of course. _That_ part was a master stroke of genius, and he must remember to congratulate his brother on his ingenuity.

But then to continue with the façade and not come to him? Well,_ that _was just foolhardy and irresponsible!

And, assuming they found Sherlock alive, there were all sorts of matters to be dealt with. Filing the necessary paperwork, working out exactly how to announce Sherlock's return to the rest of the world, dealing with Scotland Yard. Tedious, time-consuming matters.

_Not to mention the fact that he would have to explain all of this to Mummy! _

There was also the little matter of Sheridan. His _niece! _

_Of all the things that had to happen, why Sherlock choose to have a romantic entanglement with the sister of James Moriarty was beyond him! And he never gave the slightest indication! It was almost as though the boy was deliberately trying to drive him to an early grave with his antics! _

Nevertheless, Mycroft couldn't help but feel protective of Sheridan. She did indeed remind him of Sherlock, before their relationship was irreversibly damaged beyond repair.

Mycroft was not in the habit of deluding himself. He knew he let his brother down. _Many times._

More times than he could readily recall.

He would _not_ make the same mistake with Sheridan. Arrangements would have to be made regarding her education, her welfare, and her security. As long as she remained under his care, Mycroft would see to it that _nothing_ was spared in protecting Sheridan.

At least until her wayward father could be located and reunited with her.

Finally, Mycroft needed to do what he could to mend the breach that is sure to result in John's and Sherlock's friendship. John was obviously angered and hurt by what Sherlock did, despite the fact that it was done with the most noble of intentions. He could only hope, for his brother's sake, that the good doctor would somehow forgive him.

In the meantime, he would try to ascertain the damage done to John's and Sherlock's relationship, and see what could be done to repair it.

* * *

Looking back, John thought that Lestrade had handled the news _extremely_ well.

All things considered, of course!

"_WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE'S STILL ALIVE?_" Lestrade's voice echoed through the halls, earning him a few curious glances from the few remaining hospital staff left on the fourth floor, which had been secured by Mycroft's armed entourage.

"Just as I said, Detective Inspector." Mycroft said calmly. "Sherlock is still alive. He faked his suicide."

Lestrade's face turned bright red as he paced the hall. "WHERE THE HELL IS HE? THAT BLOODY BASTARD! _I'LL KILL HIM!_"

"Perhaps you need to put more force behind your rantings, Lestrade." Mycroft said amicably, causally leaning on his umbrella. "I don't believe the good people at Edinburg heard you."

"_YOU!_" Lestrade hissed. He marched up to the government official. "YOU KNEW ALL ALONG!"

Mycroft sighed. "I assure you, Lestrade, that my brother's little deception was kept from me as well."

"Little deception?" Lestrade gasped. "_Little deception!_ I'll show him, that bloody bastard, when I get my hands on him!"

"Greg?" Donovan entreated softly. "As much as we would like to, we _can't_ kill Sherlock!"

"WHY THE BLOODY HELL NOT!" Lestrade screamed. His face went from red to pruce, and John feared that if he continued to shout, he might stop breathing.

"Because then we make Sheri an orphan, _that's_ why!" Donovan shot back.

"_Sheri?_" Lestrade asked, confused.

"Sheridan." John explained. "The little girl from earlier. The one who shot Moran. She's Sherlock's daughter."

Lestrade paled, eyes wide with shock. "Sherlock has a _kid_?" He gasped out loud.

"Yes, Greg." Donovan stated flatly. "_I know_! Never would have figured the Freak would have children. But she's Sherlock's. She can even do that 'deducing' thing that he does."

"_WELL THAT MAKES EVERYTHING JUST FINE, DOESN'T IT!_" Lestrade shouted, resuming his rant. "ANOTHER DAMN SECRET! WHY AM I THE LAST ONE TO KNOW THESE THINGS!_?_"

"Hey! Greg! What's going on?" Hopkins said, rushing down the hallway. "Something happened with Moran? I can hear you shouting all the way down the hall!"

Lestrade balled his fists, taking great breaths in an abortive attempt to calm down. Hopkins, seeing that he would not get any answers from Lestrade, turned to Donovan. "Sally? What's going on?"

"Where should I start?" Donovan asked, helplessly shrugging her shoulders.

"How about the reason why Greg is shouting like a bloody maniac?"

"I'M NOT SHOUTING!" Lestrade yelled.

"_Inspector!_" Mycroft said impatiently. "I have had just about enough of this embarrassing display! Either you will calm down and act like an officer of the law, or I will see to it that you are restrained and sedated! _Is that in any way unclear?_" Mycroft finished ominously.

If looks could kill, then Mycroft would have died that very instant. Lestrade, however, did not have the ocular power necessary for this feat, so he glared at Mycroft with all the rage and defiance he could muster.

Thankfully, he kept his jaw clinched shut.

"What's with all the shouting?" Anderson said, coming up from the other end of the hallway. Behind him, Clarky walked slowly behind him, his green eyes filled with alarm. John noted that Clarky now had a small bandage where he was hit earlier, but he was thankful to note that Clarky still looked fine and seemed to be in full possession of his mental facilities.

"Oh, _brilliant!_ Looks like everyone's here! Go on, Mycroft! Share the good news!" John said brightly.

Mycroft turned his cool reptilian gaze at John. "Don't you have something more _productive_ to do, John?"

"Nope! Can't think of a thing!" John replied serenely. "Though I _was_ planning on marking out this hallway and holding races where we push each other around in office chairs! Do you think the hospital will let us?"

"Sarcasm and wit are talents in which you are clearly lacking, John." Mycroft muttered.

John smirked back in reply.

"_Okay_…why do I feel that I just stumbled on World War III?" Clarky asked. "Should we head down to the bunkers before the bombs rain down on us, or what?"

"Sherlock's alive!" Donovan said bluntly.

"_WHAT!_" Hopkins shouted.

"ARE YOU'RE SERIOUS!" Anderson yelped.

"_Who_?" Clarky asked innocently.

Everyone stared at Clarky. "_He doesn't know about Sherlock?_" Lestrade asked, looking back at Donovan accusingly.

"Hey, Greg, don't give _me _that look! It's not like it's something we talk about around the break room or when we head to the pub!" Donovan shot back. "How come _you_ haven't told him?"

"_Why the bloody hell would I tell him?_" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"_Hey_! Clueless redneck still has _feelings_, you know!" Clarky protested. "Now, what is going on? Who is this _Sherlock_? And where is the little girl? Why isn't she with you?"

"_Oh ho!_ That's the best part!" Donovan snickered, turning towards Anderson. "The girl, Sheri! She's Sherlock's daughter!"

"ARE YOU SERIOUS!" Anderson gasped. "_Please_ tell me you're not serious!"

"Trust me! She is Sherlock's kid! Can't understand why we didn't see it before, because she looks just like him!" Donovan grinned. "Then again, never thought Sherlock's kid would actually have _manners_, either!"

Anderson spun around and pointed accusingly at Mycroft. "Aren't you supposed to be in charge of national security or something? And you didn't know you had a _niece?_ Are there any more _freak spawn_ running around that we should be warned about?"

"And _what_ would you have me do about it, Dr. Anderson?" Mycroft said mildly.

"_How about forced sterilization?_" Anderson screeched.

John couldn't help it. The stress of the last few hours had weakened him to the point that emotional control was not a viable option.

_And now this!_

He started laughing. _Loudly._

"Since when do you care about Sherlock's _mating habits_, Anderson?" John giggled.

"_I don't!_" Anderson stated hotly.

Lestrade started snickering loudly. Hopkins hummed as he vainly tried to keep the smirk off his face. Sally giggled quietly. Clarky looked at the scene and just shook his head sadly.

"And here I thought you Brits were supposed to be all _prim and proper_! Remind me not to tell you about any of _my_ sexual conquests, Anderson! You're liable to take me to a vet to have me fixed as well!" Clarky said.

_That did it. _

Whatever control John, Lestrade, Donovan, and Hopkins had disappeared entirely as they collapsed into violent laughter. Mycroft watched the scene unfold with mild indifference, while Anderson snarled viciously in Clarky's direction. The few hospital staff who still had clearance to this floor looked at the group disapprovingly, but none approached, perhaps being kept at bay by the impassive armed guards that accompanied Mycroft to the hospital.

"_Okay_…" Clarky muttered. Ignoring the people rolling around on the ground trying to remember the fine art of breathing, Clarky turned to the only (apparently) sane person left standing and offered his hand. "Well, then! Might as well get introductions out of the way! Hello there! Nice to meet you! My name is Clarky!"

"Good afternoon, Dr. Edward Clarkson." Mycroft said calmly as he accepted Clarky's hand. "My name is Mycroft Holmes."

Clarky's grin faltered slightly. "The same guy that Sheri was talking about earlier? The British Government in human form?" Frowning, he stared at the umbrella in Mycroft's other hand.

"I believe Sheridan may have been _mistaken_ as to the aspects and scope of my work." Mycroft replied evasively.

Clarky glanced around at the armed guards and looked as though he was still uncertain. "_Okay?_ Well…can _you_ kindly explain to me who the hell this 'Sherlock' is, and why it has them all acting like they just drank their first bit of moonshine?"

"Certainly." Mycroft said. "Sherlock is my brother. My junior by seven years. About a year and a half ago, he worked as an unpaid consultant at Scotland Yard."

"Oh!" Clarky said, relaxing. He was beginning to fear that this _Sherlock_ was some sort of mad man, like that "Moriarty" guy that Sally mentioned earlier. "So he's one of us, then? That's good to know! Does he still work with the Yard? Have I met him?"

"I'm afraid you have not met him, Dr. Clarkson. Suffice to say he has been _away_ for a while." Mycroft said evasively. "However, I happen to have a picture of him here." Mycroft calmly retrieved his wallet out of his coat pocket.

John watched the situation unfold with interest. _Hmm. Never thought Mycroft would be sentimental enough to carry a picture of Sherlock around._

_There's a lot about my brother and I that you don't know._ Sherlock voice whispered in the back of his mind.

_Shut it, you bloody bastard!_ John thought angrily_. I rather have this argument with the real you, not with my own head, thank you very much!_

"Ah, here it is." Mycroft said as he handed his wallet to Clarky. "This is a rather recent picture of Sherlock, taken a few years ago."

Clarky nodded as he took the picture and glanced at it. He squinted, then glanced again. He looked up and smirked. "_Ohhhhh! I get it!_ Very funny, guys! Is this what you do to all new recruits, or what?"

Mycroft frowned. "What are you talking about, Dr. Clarkson?"

Clarky grinned happily. "I'm no fool! Is Lucky here, waiting to jump out and scare me?" Clarky snickered and raised his voice loud enough to be heard. "_LUCKY!_ You bastard! And all this time I thought you didn't have a sense of humor! And what's with the weird set-up? You could have just called me and told me you came back home, you know!"

Clarky walked over and looked at the guards, searching their faces, then turned back to Mycroft. "Is he watching all of this from a hidden camera or something? Will this be on YouTube? Or am I on one of those reality shows, like 'Punked?'" Grinning broadly, Clarky cupped his hands over his mouth. "_Lucky!_ Where are you hiding? I'm _soooo_ going to get you for this!"

John stared hard at Clarky. "What are you going on about?"

"_Lucky!_ He's here, right?" Clarky asked eagerly. "You know? _Patrick!_ Patrick Covington! Surely he told you all about me? But don't believe _everything_ he says! I promise, most of it is just lies and exaggerations!" Clarky replied, grinning crookedly.

"Dr. Clarkson, am I to understand that you recognize the man in the photograph?" Mycroft asked.

"Well, sure I do!" Clarky replied, becoming slightly uneasy as he saw the uncertain stares he was getting from his fellow Yarders. He pointed back toward the photo Mycroft still held in his hand. "That's _Lucky!_ I met him when I was still working at Knoxville! Over a year ago!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** This is one of my favorite chapters to write! I love everyone's reactions after Sheridan tells them the truth. I just hope Sherlock has the sense not to show up right now, or he is in for a world of pain!

So _Clarky_, the clueless country boy from Tennessee, actually knows Sherlock? How did _this_ happen?

And what is with Americans and their need to give the Holmes brothers nicknames? Mycroft is the DMP, and now Sherlock is _Lucky?_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." And I apologize for Anderson scaring you all like that! I'll have a talk with him.

**Peaceful Defender**-_Anderson!_ Come here! _Right now!_

**Sylvia Anderson** (cringing)-What do you want?

**Peaceful Defender**-Can you explain to me, in as few words as possible, why you got so bent out of shape that Sherlock is Sheridan's father? Don't you think your reaction was just a bit extreme!?

**Stanley Hopkins** (laughing)-Yeah, Anderson! Now all of the Sherlock fan girls are going to come after you! With pitchforks and torches!

**Sylvia Anderson** (blushing)-I panicked! When Sally told me Sherlock was the girl's father, all I could think about was a world of mini-Sherlocks running around! (Shudders, then turns green).

**Stanley Hopkins** (smirking)-We better run some DNA tests! Because there is bound to be many more…what was it again? Oh, yeah! _Freak spawn_ running around!

**Sylvia Anderson **(runs off in order to throw up somewhere)

**Peaceful Defender** (staring critically at Stanley Hopkins)-_Why did you do that for?_ Now we will have to wait till he feels better before we get to the next chapter!

**Stanley Hopkins**-Oh, right! That reminds me! Can you tell me why the redneck claims he knows Sherlock? Is this some type of joke?

**Peaceful Defender** (shrugs)-Why don't you go ask Clarky yourself? That will be in the next chapter.


	21. Chapter 20

**Warning: More fallout from the "Sherlock is alive" revelation! Includes cursing, more teasing of Tennessee residents, and...abuse of corpses? If you have a weak stomach or are offended about the idea of cadavers being used for experiments (which I don't see how, if you watch "Sherlock"), then don't read!**

**Fifty reviews?! I love you guys! By the way, congradulations to MoonlitIvy and chaoticmom, who guessed that "Lucky" was Sherlock! Great job!**

**If anyone else guessed correctedly, and I forgot to mention it, great job to you too!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: Lucky**

"If your family tree does not fork, you might be a redneck." Jeff Foxworthy

* * *

"Ok, Clarky! Let's start from the beginning!" Lestrade said. "How _exactly_ do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

Clarky sighed dramatically. "_I've already told you!_ I don't _know_ any Sherlock Holmes! But I _do_ know the guy in the picture! His name is Patrick Covington, from Manchester, England! At least, that's what he told us…" Clarky finished awkwardly.

"That _tosser!_" John muttered under his breath. "Just wait till I find him…"

Clarky noted the underlying current of frustration and anger in John's voice but still couldn't figure out why.

And he was too confused at this point to ask.

"Of course, there _are_ some differences." Clarky noted as he stared at the picture of Sherlock again. "In your picture, he has black hair. The Lucky _I _know is a blonde. Also, Lucky looked a bit more _undernourished_ than he does in your picture_,_ if you know what I mean."

Clarky frowned in thought. "But I don't register hair color. I remember _bone structure_. And I am _certain_!"

"But are you _sure_ this is the same man that you know?" Lestrade said, once again pushing Sherlock's picture across the table till it rested in front of the forensics investigator. Thanks to Mycroft, the group was now in one of the hospital's unused meeting rooms in case anyone should have any more outbursts.

Clarky nodded resolutely. "I'm sure! When I was in the Anthropology Department, I must have handled _hundreds_ of skulls. And Lucky has very distinct features. A rounded mandible, very pronounced zygomatic bones…"

"Speak English _please!_" Donovan growled.

Clarky sighed impatiently. "_Fine!_ He has the same strong, foxlike jaw bone and protruding cheek bones. Like I said, I read _bones_! I'm a forensics expert! I worked in the Anthropology Department for years, too! _That's my job! _ And I'm telling you that I'm one hundred percent certain! Trust me! Either that or this 'Sherlock' person has an identical twin running around." Clarky replied.

"Which I assure you, my brother did not." Mycroft stated flatly. "I may have been seven years old at the time, but I remember the events of my brother's birth very well. As eventful as that day was, I believe I would have noticed if he had a twin brother."

"I would think you would have known if you had a _niece_ running around, too!" Lestrade said sarcastically. Then he turned back to Clarky. "Alright, Clarky, let's start from the beginning. _When_ did you meet Sherlock?"

Clarky furrowed his forehead as he tried to remember. "I can't give you an exact date. But it was either May or June of last year. We worked together at the Body Farm."

"Wait…_what?_" Donovan stuttered.

Clarky rolled his eyes. _He always hated explaining this to people!_ "The _Body Farm_. Back in 1981, the good folks in the University of Tennessee in Knoxville decided to set aside two acres of land for the sole purpose of learning how bodies decay in different circumstances and conditions. That way, when we are called to a homicide or to identify a corpse, we can use that knowledge and figure out what happened."

"So let me get this straight!" Hopkins said, a look of disbelief plastered on his face. "You Americans have this place where you just leave out _corpses_? And, what? You just watch them _rot!_"

"Something like that." Clarky grunted, shrugging.

"I've heard of this 'Body Farm.'" Anderson ventured hesitantly. "It's actually very well respected in the scientific field."

"It is." Clarky agreed. "Every year, we get about one hundred and fifty bodies donated to us, all in the name of science. Mostly people who want to make sure that their sacrifice will allow people like us to catch killers and take them off the streets, as well as bring closure for their families."

"But how does watching bodies rot _help_, exactly?" Hopkins asked.

Clarky smiled. "By studying the rate of decomposition and the conditions from which they occur, we can figure out when someone died and how long the body was there, or whether it had been moved. Whether a person that was found in a burning building was already dead or if the victim was still alive when the fire started. Things like that."

"So, you leave bodies out in the sun, in the rain, snow, underwater, and so on?" Hopkins asked, his face turning slightly green.

"Yes." Clarky answered. "And we are not the only place. Last time I checked, there are a total of four such places back in the States."

Hopkins shook his head in disbelief. "You Americans are _sick! _ A right bunch of _nutters_, the whole lot of you! You all have gone completely around the bend!"

"From the way you describe the place, it sounds like the Freak's version of Euro Disneyland!" Donovan commented, smirking.

John snickered as he pictured Sherlock running around this "Body Farm," conducting "experiments" in the one place where it would not be frowned upon.

_I bet he was sorry to leave!_

"Just out of curiosity, did this 'Lucky' ever leave any _body parts_ in the fridge?" Lestrade asked intently.

Clarky's eyes lit up. "As a matter of fact, he _did,_ once, for an experiment! Nancy, one of our lab technicians, opened the door one day, and screamed bloody murder when she found a severed head beside the potato salad! Loud enough to break glass, if you can believe that! Well, after talking about it a bit, all of us at the lab thought it was a good idea, so we bought another refrigerator, one to keep food in, and the other to keep body parts in! You never know if that might be useful, after all!" Clarky explained.

"_Oh Lord!_" Donovan muttered, rolling her eyes.

_How come no one bothered to do a psyche evaluation on Clarky before they hired him?_

"Did he ever perform any experiments on human corpses? Besides just watching them decompose, I mean." John asked curiously.

Clarky smirked. "Actually, when he wasn't moping around, Lucky came up with some awesome experiments! One time, he and I put several cadavers on some golf carts and rigged the motors so that we could use a remote to drive the carts through a mine field we constructed to observe what type of injuries a person would get! It was for a case, you see! The victim was playing at a golf course in Blount County, and…"

"_And_ it is official! Clarky is one certifiable nutter! And if this '_Lucky_' is in fact Sherlock, then Clarky is now set to become his evil lab assistant!" Hopkins replied.

Clarky responded by petulantly sticking out his tongue at Hopkins, who smirked back.

"You're just jealous that you couldn't have been there!" Clarky shot back smugly.

"Oh, right! I am _so_ sorry I missed out on that! Having exploding body parts raining down on me! Yes, how _empty_ is my life!" Hopkins said sarcastically, dramatically covering his face in mock-sorrow.

Clarky shrugged. "Considering the fact that we found out what killed the victim, I say it was worth it!"

"So how did you meet 'Lucky' there?" John asked, interrupting the good-natured yet bizarre banter between Clarky and Hopkins.

"I met Lucky because he came to us highly recommended by a colleague of mine." Clarky said. "Introduced himself as Patrick Covington. Now, in Tennessee, if we get to accepting you, we come up with a nickname for you! So after a while, we got to calling him _Lucky_."

"Why's that?" Lestrade asked.

"Because there was no other way to describe him." Clarky said matter-of-factly. "He always managed to get out of tight spots. Good thing too, because the man _constantly_ threw himself into dangerous situations, like he had a death wish or something! And he was smart. I mean _Einstein_ level! When he showed up at crime scenes, he always seemed to catch details that we would all miss. He also could figure out things about people."

"What types of things?" Donovan asked, leaning forward.

"All kinds of things! Hell, it was _creepy_! When I first met the guy, he would barely talk to anyone. Never would open up. But we Tennesseans are nosey, if you know what I mean! I tried to engage him in conversation quite a bit. He tried to get me to stop by insulting me, but like I said, I'm nosey." Clarky stated.

"In other words, you didn't let Sherlock's insults bother you." Lestrade noted, looking somewhat impressed. It seemed that Lestrade had already made up his mind that Lucky and Sherlock were one and the same after learning about the body parts in the fridge.

"Hey, what can I say? '_Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me!_'" Clarky replied.

"Is _everyone_ where you are from so… _patient_?" Donovan asked, fumbling for the correct word.

_Maybe they needed to stage a drug raid on Clarky's home, just in case…_

Clarky laughed. "_Hardly!_ I'm the exception, not the rule! Most people in the South take pride seriously! But even then, Lucky still survived without anyone with a badge taking a shot at him! He did it by insulting a person in such a way that by the time he or she figured it out, Lucky was already well out of the line of fire!"

"How did he do that?" Hopkins asked inquisitively.

Clarky smirked. "I could go through some examples, but that may take all day! So…let me think. _Oh!_ Lucky _did_ tell one deputy from Monroe County that he had a '_certifiable I.Q. equivalent to that of a marine invertebrate'_ one time! Good thing he was right, or he would have been shot on sight! Poor guy was _still_ trying to figure out what Lucky meant after we left!"

Lestrade sniggered. "That _definitely_ sounds like Sherlock! Did he insult _you_ like that?"

Clarky shrugged. "He tried to, at first, until he realized that it didn't bother me. It didn't bother most of my colleagues either. We all thought it was kind of funny, to tell you the truth! He could come up with some creative insults, you know! But most of the time, he walked around like a zombie and wouldn't say anything!"

"If only _we_ could have been so fortunate!" Anderson whispered under his breath.

Clarky continued. "Anyways, a few weeks after he arrived, he _finally_ started talking. And by talking, I mean saying more than just the occasional insult or grunting like a caveman! I still remember it like it was yesterday. See, we were at a crime scene in Cooke County, to identify the body of a murder victim. Then, all of a sudden, Lucky starts spouting out all sorts of information. How old the woman was, what she did for a living, where she had been that day, you name it!"

Clarky paused, warming up to his story as he went along. "After that, we learned he was able to observe little things about us. He knew that I was born and raised in East Tennessee, that my parents were dead and that I served in the military. And that's not all. He knew what brand of beer I liked, the fact I owned a cat, _everything!_ He even knew that I indulged in painting in my spare time from a speck of acrylic paint he detected on my sleeve cuff and the smell of the canvas on my shirt, and I never shared that with _anyone_! It was like talking to _Hannibal Lecter_ without the threat of cannibalism!"

"Hmm. That _definitely_ sounds like Sherlock." Lestrade mused. "Anything else?"

"He was shocked that we didn't dislike him for it. His ability, you know? I mean, it was like he had bottled it up inside for so long, and then it just came out. _The look on his face!_ He looked like a deer caught in headlights!" Clarky chuckled at the memory. "He was surprised we were so accepting of him after that."

"Hold on, mate!" Anderson said in a strangled voice. "The Freak tells you personal details about your own life, and that didn't _bother_ you!"

"_We were in Tennessee!_" Clarky replied, as if that should clarify matters to everyone. When he saw the blank stares, he decided to elaborate further.

"_Look_, in that part of the country, everyone knows everyone! You can't hide _anything_ there forever. If you want to keep a secret, you probably need to go live somewhere else! It's our favorite pass time, in a way. Gossiping about our neighbors and learning all of their dirty little secrets! That's the way we are!"

"Anyway, Lucky made it fun because he took the hard work out of it. We didn't have to search too hard with him with us. So we did less searching and had more time to focus on the gossiping! And if he was able to deduce how many lovers a woman had, _so what?_ If the woman is ashamed of it, then _she_ shouldn't be doing it! Also, it was amazing to see Lucky in action! Do you _know_ how many killers we caught that summer? Or how many cold cases we were able to solve? It was _incredible!_"

"I guess it was." Lestrade said softly. No doubt he was recalling all the times Sherlock came to help the Yard out on tough cases.

But had anyone actually _thanked_ him for it?

Clarky's face suddenly lit up. "_Whoa!_ Wait a minute! I forgot! I got a picture of Lucky stored on my cell!" Clarky exclaimed as he dug into his trouser pocket before pulling out his cell phone. He started going through all his saved photographs before he found the one he wanted.

Grinning, he held up his phone. "This is a picture I took of Lucky once. Without his knowledge, though. He _never_ wanted his picture taken! Camera shy, I guess. Nor did he want the papers or anyone else to know much about him! He said something about not trusting the press, but he never would say why! Anyway, we were working undercover at a local karaoke bar to catch a serial killer…"

"Karaoke bar?" Hopkins asked.

"Yeah. Believe it or not, we _do_ have karaoke in the States, Stan!" Clarky replied jokingly. "Anyways, Lucky entered the contest as part of the sting and sang 'Walking in Memphis' even though he only heard the song a few days before. He managed to sing it with a southern accent _and_ while playing the piano! He drove the women crazy, even though he didn't want to! They almost rushed the stage, like he was some sort of reincarnated Elvis or something! Half the ladies somehow managed to leave him their phone numbers!"

"Sherlock can _sing?_" Lestrade gasped in amazement.

Clarky nodded. "He's pretty good, too! Of course, _he_ won the contest, which he referred to as '_a gathering of heavily intoxicated idiots and imbeciles with no musical inclination or talent whatsoever_,' and later that night we caught the killer!"

The group gathered around the cell phone to view the picture. It was that of a young man, with pale skin and distinct cheekbones, sitting in front of a piano on a wooden stage.

Despite the fact he was not wearing his trademark Belstaff coat and cashmere scarf, as well as the fact that he took time to dye his hair a tinted honey-blonde, there was no longer a question in anyone's mind.

"_That's Sherlock._" John confirmed.

* * *

Clarky could not believe what was happening.

He _always_ considered himself a good judge of people, and their motives.

Clarky had an instinct, as Grandma Lily always used to say. A moral compass that let him know if he was dealing with a person with good or evil intentions.

He had met Lucky, and had known immediately the younger man was a good guy.

Not a saint, of course_. _

_But then again, who was?_

Outwardly, there was little to support Clarky's conclusion. When he wasn't silent and morose, Lucky could be aloof and unsociable and sometimes downright _rude_.

But Clarky _always_ listened to his gut. And his gut told him Lucky was a good guy.

Just unusual and misunderstood, that's all!

But hey, Clarky was unusual too.

_Who else would make it his career to study the bones of the dead?_

He always knew Lucky was hiding _something_, of course. It didn't take a certifiable genius to figure _that one_ out!

_But he never expected this…_

"So, just for the record, you're telling me that _Lucky_ and this guy _Sherlock_ is the same person?" Clarky asked incredulously.

"Either that or there is someone out there who looks and acts like Sherlock." Donovan muttered.

"I'm still in shock that Sherlock can _sing_!" Lestrade muttered. "Bloody bastard is just _full_ of surprises…"

"Our mother made sure to instruct her sons in the fine arts, including _music_, Inspector." Mycroft explained, cutting in before Lestrade could begin his rant. "Although Sherlock always preferred his violin as opposed to the other instruments he was instructed to learn."

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" John asked excitedly. "Do you have any way to contact him?"

Clarky sighed. "I hate to ruin your day, John, but Lucky left Knoxville a few months after he arrived. Near the end of September, if I remember correctly. I have not heard from him since."

Clarky watched as John deflated in front of him, disappointment evident on his face.

"Can you recall anything remarkable about my brother's departure?" Mycroft said calmly as he leaned forward. Despite his caviar attitude, Clarky noted that the man was gripping his umbrella handle rather tightly, as if Clarky's answer could mean the difference between life and death.

Clarky nodded. He remembered the events _extremely_ well. "It was a few days after we captured Culverton Smith. You know, the doctor who was poisoning people so that they would go brain dead, allowing him to harvest their organs and sell them on the black market? He even did it to his own _nephew_, the sick bastard!"

"Anyways, Lucky went undercover and pretended to have figured everything out and approached Smith, pretending to want money in exchange for his silence. Smith tried to poison him, and Lucky let him believe he had succeeded."

Clarky suddenly laughed loudly as everyone stared at him, uncomprehendingly.

"Sorry, but you had to have been there to understand!" Clarky smirked. "_You should have seen Smith's face!_ You see, Lucky went all out, not eating for several days, so that he looked real sick and let Smith think he poisoned him. Then, Lucky got him to confess to everything and got the entire conversation on tape."

Clarky smiled broadly as he continued his narrative. "Poor doctor pissed his pants up real good when Lucky jumped out of bed, especially when Lucky revealed that he was faking the entire time! Then Dr. Smith looked like he was about to die of a stroke when I jumped out with several officers and yelled _'Surprise!'_ Never had a take-down like _that_ before!"

"So Sherlock was already taking down Moriarty's connections, even then." Mycroft nodded, looking satisfied. "Please continue, Dr. Clarkson."

"It's _Clarky, _Mr. Holmes. Anyway, I figured Lucky would stick around and wait to get offered a full time position, as he was only there on a temp basis. I was going to give him a good recommendation, too! But a few days later, he just packed up his things and left town. A lot of us were sorry to see him go. _Especially_ the women!" Clarky shook his head sadly, remembering how popular Lucky was with the ladies, whether he wanted to be or not.

"Sounds like Sherlock had a whole bunch of _fan girls_ in America!" Hopkins noted, smirking.

"I'm telling you, mates, the world will be overrun by _freak spawn!_ We are all _doomed!_ You just wait!" Anderson muttered under her breath, only to be elbowed in the side (again) by an exasperated Donovan.

"So why did Sherlock leave?" Lestrade asked, turning his attention back to Clarky.

Clarky shrugged. "He got a letter in the mail. Freaked him out pretty good, too. Announced he had to leave immediately."

"Do you know who sent him the letter?" John asked.

Clarky shook his head. "All I can tell you is that it was sent from Georgia. I didn't see who it was from or what it said. Anyhow, I asked him why he had to leave, and he said that something bad happened. I asked him if it was something back home, and he makes this weird comment that he didn't have a home or family to go back to, and he probably never would."

"He _really_ said that?" Lestrade asked weakly.

Clarky shrugged. "_I _figured he meant that he had a falling out of sorts at home. Like a fight or something, you know? And whatever happened seemed to always be in the back of his mind, like it was always eating at him. Never would give him any peace. So I told him I was sure that if he went back home, he would find that his friends had already forgiven him, and that they missed him as much as he obviously missed them, you know? Then he got all depressed on me and said that it wasn't that simple. He _wanted_ to go home, I could tell, but he also felt he _couldn't._" Clarky finished, looking inquiringly at the faces around him.

"That was before the tape came out." Lestrade whispered, looking as though he had just been told a close family member had died. "Is there anything else you can think of, Clarky?"

"There was _one_ more thing, but I don't think it's that important." Clarky said, frowning.

"In this situation, Dr. Clarkson, it is often difficult to ascertain what is important and what is not." Mycroft said stoically.

Clarky huffed in resignation. "Well, Lucky once asked why UT Knoxville chose to have the color orange as its school color. I didn't know. I don't think _anyone_ knows, really! Then he said something about that we needed to change it because we looked like we were all going around wearing shock blankets!"

"_What!_" Hopkins asked, gapping.

"Yep! I didn't know what he meant until I came here. And let me tell you, he's _wrong!_ We use _blue_ shock blankets back where I'm from. And just so you know, the color of _your_ shock blankets here more closely resembles the shade of orange they use for the Texas Longhorns!" Clarky explained, looking slightly annoyed by the fact that anyone would dare insult his alma mater.

The other people in the room, unfortunately, did not sympathize.

Anderson, John, and Hopkins began laughing hysterically. Donovan covered her mouth in a vain attempt to hide her own giggles. Lestrade put his face on the table and covered it with his arms, shoulders shaking. Even the government official had an amused smile that lasted for a few seconds before he managed to filter it out.

"I'll _remember_ this the next time England plays for the World Cup!" Clarky muttered, having an air of insulted dignity about him.

"So if we ever wanted to blend in at Knoxville, all we need is a bunch of _shock blankets_, right?" Hopkins squeaked.

"_Now_ I know why Sherlock was collecting all those blankets!" Lestrade laughed, his voice slightly muffled. "Must have been planning to visit Knoxville for a while now and wanted to fit in with the locals there!"

"_Ha, ha!_ _Very_ amusing! No, really, don't let me stop you all!" Clarky grumbled sarcastically.

"I don't believe this! Next time I go on vacation, I _really_ need to see this Knoxville, _the land of rotting corpses and shock blankets!_" Anderson giggled.

"Before this escalates into a debate on color shades and preferences, _I_ have a rather important question." Mycroft said, again adopting a serious persona.

"Fire away!" Clarky replied, shrugging his shoulders.

"You mentioned earlier that my brother Sherlock, whom you knew under the alias of 'Lucky,' came to Knoxville and got a position there under the recommendation of a colleague. Would you share that colleague's name with us now?"

Clarky's tanned completion drained of color as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He looked at all the inquiring faces surrounding him. "Before I do that, why don't _you_ tell me first what the problem was here? Why did Lucky leave England? I mean, if he wanted to come to America or wherever, it shouldn't be a problem, _right?_"

"Ah!" Said Mycroft, his suspicions confirmed. "I see now. Of course! So, _Molly Hooper_ helped my brother fake his demise, is that it? And after his burial, she sent him to the one place she knew of where his quirks were unlikely to draw attention and where he would not be bored. Clever woman!"

"_Wait!_ Hold on!" Clarky shouted. "_What burial?_ What are you talking about? Are you telling me Lucky _faked his death_ _or something?_"

"That is exactly what I am saying." The man with the umbrella affirmed calmly.

Clarky looked inquiringly into the faces of those around him, hoping that someone would explain what was going on.

No one seemed forthcoming with the required information.

"Then will someone answer a question for _me_? Can someone explain to me why _anyone _in his right mind would feel the need to fake his own death?" Clarky asked.

Lestrade groaned, rubbing his fingers through his brown and silvery hair. "It's a _long_ story."

Clarky grunted. "I'm from the South! _We love long stories!_ So talk!"

* * *

They told him.

It took over an hour to recount the events of what happened over a year ago. Clarky listened intently, occasionally stopping the story for clarification on some of the details.

By the time they were finished, Clarky groaned inwardly.

_He never knew a time when his gut was so completely off the mark!_

Lucky _was_ a good guy. He was right about _that_ part.

But the rest…_Oh hell!_

Lucky _had_ told him the situation at his home was complicated, and he had brushed it off.

But Lucky was right. The situation _was_ complicated.

_As in quantum physics complicated!_

"No wonder the poor guy was so withdrawn all the time!" Clarky exclaimed, rubbing his forehead to fight off a tension headache. "_Damn!_ If I knew…"

"It would appear that he didn't want _anyone_ to know." Donovan muttered. "Can't say I blame him."

Clarky frowned as he glanced over at his co-workers. "Okay…let me recap just so I got all this straight! Some super villain named Moriarty fakes Lucky's, sorry, _Sherlock's_ involvement in a kidnapping case. Using information he got from his government brother, he has the press print lies about him and turns the public against him!"

"Yes." Lestrade said dully.

Clarky nodded with satisfaction before continuing. "Then he is arrested, but escapes, only to meet this Moriarty person on a rooftop. Super villain Moriarty tells him to jump or watch three of his friends die by sniper fire. He chooses to jump. Do I have the details right so far?" Clarky asked, his voice remarkably calm given the circumstances.

"Everything up to the point that Sherlock apparently fakes his death with the help of Molly." John added.

"And the letter he received was from some old girlfriend of his to tell him she was dying and that he had a kid he didn't know about?" Clark asked.

"Yeah." Lestrade confirmed.

"And that girl, Sheridan, is his child?"

"Unbelievable, I know!" Donovan said.

Clarky nodded dazedly. "And his old girlfriend just _happens_ to be the sister of super villain Moriarty, and she was hiding from him as well. And Lucky ends up taking custody of Sheridan after she died." Clarky continued.

"It would appear so." Hopkins replied.

"And for the last year and a half, Lucky has been taking down super villain Moriarty's thugs until there is just the main group that is located here left. Meanwhile, you guys, believing Lucky really _was _dead, decide to go after the evil empire and find out super villain Moriarty faked his death too. Lucky finally comes back here, and now he's trying to take down this Moriarty?" Clarky summed up.

"You got it." Anderson affirmed.

Clarky nodded before turning in his seat to face John. "And just so I'm clear about all of this, John, _Lucky_ was the friend that shared the flat with you before you thought he died! _Lucky_ is the eccentric friend!"

"I say you have everything figured out." John said quietly. He was getting tired, and going through the events of that fateful time left him feeling strangely hollow.

"_Wow!_ And here I thought _I_ had problems!" Clarky remarked to himself, shaking his head in amazement.

"Problems that Sherlock could have avoided had he come clean in the first place!" Lestrade muttered, still looking throughly irritated.

"But you guys just said you tried to _arrest_ him! For a crime he didn't commit! No offense, mates, but I would be a little afraid to come to you guys as well! I'd be worried I will be hanging out in lock-up!" Clarky pointed out.

"But he _has_ to know by now that his name has been cleared!" Anderson protested.

Clarky shrugged. "Maybe there is another reason, then. Maybe Lucky is afraid that this Moriarty guy could try to kill you guys or use you as hostages if he has somehow found out Lucky is alive. Maybe the sniper that was supposed to take out Greg is still around! I don't know, but I sure he has a good reason."

The Yarders looked uncomfortable as Clarky's reasoning sunk in.

_Perhaps Sherlock was right not to come to the Yard._

Clarky turned back to John and cocked his head to the side. "You said earlier that Lucky told the kid not to tell anyone he's alive, right?"

"That's right." John nodded.

Clarky furrowed his forehead in thought. "You don't think he…"

"What?" Donovan asked.

Clarky frowned, looking worried. "You guys know him better than I do, but do you think it is possible that the reason he told Sheri not to tell us anything was because Lucky believes he may _die_ taking down this Moriarty character?"

Clarky's words hung like a plague over the group. No one dared to speak for a moment.

"_Dammit!_" John yelled, hitting the table with his fists.

_Clarky was right._

Sherlock was planning on going down with Moriarty. He probably _never_ meant for them to learn he was still alive in the first place.

He would either take Moriarty down, or die in the attempt.

And he was going to do it on his own.

_Why would you do something so completely idiotic, Sherlock?_

_Would it help you to mourn my passing twice?_ Sherlock voice whispered inside his head.

_But now I know. So are you just going to leave me alone again?_ John mentally retorted back.

"Looks like we need to find Sherlock before he runs into Moriarty." Anderson said, shaking John out of his musings. "Or he can get into big trouble."

"He's _already_ in trouble!" Lestrade muttered angrily.

"He's not the only one." Hopkins observed dryly.

Clarky flinched as he realized whom Hopkins was referring to. "Will Molly be charged?" Clarky asked weakly. "I mean, all she did was help Lucky out! She shouldn't go to jail for _that!_"

"I think the better question is whether or not Dr. Hooper is in _danger_." Mycroft stated in a cold tone. "Should word of this get out and is heard by the wrong people, then Dr. Hooper's life will be placed in considerable jeopardy."

"Anyone who touches Molly will have to shoot through _me _first!" Clarky said with clenched teeth. He then noticed the looks he was getting, and his face turned beet-red. "I mean, uh, well, _you know…_"

"Have you been harboring this infatuation for Dr. Hooper for a long time, Dr. Clarkson?" Mycroft asked politely.

"Don't make me force you to swallow that umbrella, Mr. Holmes! I don't care if you are the British Government or Lucky's brother or whatever the hell you are! And it's none of your business! _Yours or anyone else's!_" Clarky huffed in annoyance while glaring at his co-workers, who were unsuccessful in hiding their smirks.

"I see. Is that what you told Sherlock when he pointed that out to you, back in Knoxville? Did he say something, perhaps, that convinced you to come to London so that you may be with her? Perhaps he even advised you to tell Dr. Hooper how you felt about her?" Mycroft observed knowingly.

Clarky's mouth hung open in astonishment before closing it quickly and looking over at Lestrade. "I take back what I said before! Talking to _this guy_ is like talking to Hannibal Lecter! Though judging by his size, the threat of cannibalism may not be a fantasy!"

This comment made everyone laugh again with the sole exception of Mycroft, who gave Clarky his coldest stare. Clarky just snorted dismissively and turned to Lestrade, who sat back in his chair with an amused grin on his face. "Before this guy decides the best method on how to cook and season me, can someone please go and get Molly before some _psycho_ decides to shoot her? _Please!_"

"He's right." Lestrade said. "Does anyone know where she is right now?"

Clarky nodded. "She took an early shift today. She should be downstairs at the morgue."

Lestrade nodded. "Good. Donovan! Hopkins! Go and pick Molly up downstairs."

"I could go get her." Clarky offered.

"Bloody hell, Clarky, we don't have time to wait while you go kiss Molly Hooper! Especially down in the morgue!" Hopkins smirked.

"Shut up, Stanley!" Clarky shouted.

"Alright, alright! _Enough!_" Lestrade ordered. "Clarky, you stay here! Hopkins, Donovan, bring Molly back up here."

"What do we tell her, Greg?" Hopkins asked, sobering up quickly.

"Tell her we need her help in identifying a body! Just don't tell her _whose!_" Lestrade said. "And until you get back here, not a _word_ to anyone!"

* * *

**Author's Note**: Uh-oh! Poor Molly is in trouble! How is she going to explain all of this?

I applaud all of you who guessed that Clarky was exactly who he portrays himself to be; a good-hearted but clueless American who has actual feelings for Molly, and has hidden them for several years. And Sherlock, being Sherlock, must have said something that convinced Clarky to go to London and finally tell Molly how he feels.

I guess it is Sherlock's way of thanking Molly for her help in faking his death! How sweet!

The Body Farm, believe it or not, is a real place, located on the University of Tennessee campus in Knoxville. Although I exaggerated a few things (mostly Clarky's and Sherlock's little experiments there), it is true that the Body Farm is a well-known and well-respected forensic research area, and many people actually donate their bodies to the facility.

The Body Farm is actually popular in America, as it is sometimes featured in some of the forensic shows that air here. It is also the location of the "Body Farm" books by author Jefferson Bass, and it is briefly mentioned in the film "The Blindside" with Sandra Bullock.

That is probably why, when Sherlock conducts his little experiments on borrowed cadavers, I don't even bat an eyelash! Sorry, "Sherlock" creators! But if you were planning to use the "body parts in the fridge" as a shock factor, it failed for anyone living in Tennessee!

So, you are all probably wondering why I even incorporated the Body Farm into my story. Well, I did it for several reasons.

1. In the "Sherlock" episodes, doesn't it seem strange that Molly just hands over the bodies to Sherlock? Well, I wanted to give an alternative reason other than the usual "_Molly loves Sherlock and will do anything for him_" approach. Although Molly is a bit of a push-over, I think she is less morally conflicted with handing over body parts for miscellaneous experiments is because she has probably experienced it before (with Clarky).

2. I also personally agree with Donovan that the "Body Farm" would be Sherlock's version of Euro Disneyland (or Disneyland, or Disneyworld, or any fun place you can think of!) However, you can only get in if you work there. Trust me, we do not sell tickets or allow the general public to see the grounds, as serious scientific work is done there. As Sherlock had just "died" when he arrived in Knoxville, he needed a period to adjust to the fact that he wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore, so I decided to go easy on him and send him someplace where his antics would not draw as much attention as they normally would anywhere else.

3. Come on! Admit it! The idea of Holmes having a little fun isn't all bad! And he learned some valuable forensic skills in Knoxville, so he has more reasons to call Anderson an idiot!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own "Sherlock." Or the Body Farm. Or Knoxville, Tennessee. And I _still_ can't figure out why the British have orange shock blankets!

**OC Clarky**-_It doesn't matter!_ The shades don't match!

**Peaceful Defender**-You know, I have been debating that question forever! All the scenes of the infamous "shock blanket" occur at night in all the "Sherlock" episodes I have ever seen, so it's hard to compare it with the orange that the Tennessee Volunteers use! But when I saw it, I thought "Why are the 'Sherlock' creators using a University of Tennessee blanket?"

**Stanley Hopkins**-But why would you make fun of your school colors anyway? Isn't that a bit unpatriotic? Or disrespectful?

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, everyone laughs at those who live in the South! There are a lot of misconceptions about us, that we carry guns everywhere we go, that we don't wear shoes or have good dental care, and so on! Completely untrue, of course. I'm not like that, and neither is Clarky, so we just laugh and play along with it! Sometimes the best way to fight stereotypes is to satirize them!

**Stanley Hopkins**-That still doesn't change the fact that you are both sick! I mean, you have to admit it! You have a sick mind! You need to be committed!

**Peaceful Defender** (shrugs)-True, but that doesn't change the fact that Sherlock would probably fit in well with the people in Knoxville, Tennessee. If Sherlock ever decides to move out of London, I think he would enjoy living in Knoxville! Heck, he can run down the street after spearing a pig, all covered with blood and carrying a harpoon, and most of us probably wouldn't even react! Well, except to wave hi to him, of course!

**OC Clarky**-So, are we trying to steal Lucky away from London?

**Peaceful Defender**-Nah! Think about it! He was in a place where he was allowed to use cadavers for whatever arcane experiments he envisioned without any objections, he had co-workers who didn't call him a freak, and you guys actually gave him free reign in the investigations. And yet he wasn't happy, because the people he cared about were back in London, and he missed them.

**OC Clarky**-Yeah, I guess you're right. Well, why can't we just all go to live in Knoxville?

**Stanley Hopkins**-And be surrounded by gun-crazy Americans that rather watch corpses rot than bury them! I don't _think_ so!

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, _you_ may be sent to Knoxville, if we don't get a review soon!

**Stanley Hopkins**-NOOOOOOO!


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty One: Invisible **

"'It was a mistake,'" you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you."  
David Levithan, _The Lover's Dictionary_

* * *

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Donovan and Hopkins returned with a bewildered Molly in toll, still wearing her white lab coat. Judging by her bemused expression, she didn't have the slightest hint of why she was asked to accompany them.

The first person she saw in the room was Clarky.

"Clarky?" Molly asked, looking more confused than ever. She spied the small bandage on Clarky's forehead. "_Oh my God!_ Clarky! Are you hurt? What happened!"

"I'm fine, Molly." Clarky mumbled, looking down, embarrassment and guilt etched into his expression.

"Then what…"

Her face changed instantly when she finally noticed that Lestrade, Mycroft, Anderson, and John were in the room too.

Now she looked resigned.

"Dr. Hooper, what a delight to see you again!" Mycroft said, standing from his chair and graciously pulled one out for her. "Would you care to have a seat?"

"Why do I need to sit?" Molly asked warily.

"Just so you may be more comfortable." Mycroft said politely. "We need to ask you a few questions."

Molly sighed.

_She knew this day would come._

"I take it that this is about _Sherlock_, isn't it?"

Mycroft smiled disarmably. "Now, Dr. Hooper. Why would you think that?"

"You mean that there is _another_ reason that there is a picture of Sherlock on the table?" Molly pointed out, gesturing towards the picture Mycroft kept of his younger brother.

Mycroft nodded absently. "Actually, this _is_ about my brother. Now, we just have a few questions…"

"_Fine, I confess_!" Molly crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Mycroft. "I admit it! _I helped your brother fake his death! _ There, it's out now! _Are you happy! _And I'm not sorry I did it, either!"

Molly turned towards Lestrade, eyes blazing as the normally passive pathologist transformed before everyone's eyes into a woman hell-bent on defending her decision. "He _knew _what Moriarty was planning! He knew his life was in danger, and I figured it out! He didn't even have to ask! I _offered_ to help him! And I would do it all over again, if I had to!"

She looked briefly at the other people in the room before her eyes came to rest of the dumbfounded American, who was looking at his love interest with an unreadable expression.

Immediately, Molly's gaze softened. "Oh, and Clarky knew nothing about it! He's innocent! So you can let him go!"

She turned back to Mycroft, her expression stern again. "_Arrest me!_" Molly ordered as she angrily offered her wrists to be handcuffed.

Mycroft watched Molly with renewed interest, as well as a hint of amusement. "My dear girl, I have no intention of _arresting_ you. Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Mycroft turned toward Lestrade, who shrugged.

"Bloody hell, what do you want _me_ to say? Turned out Sherlock was innocent of all the crimes he was accused of! And I don't think anyone got rich off an insurance policy, which is usually the reason someone would fake his death. And 'abuse of a corpse' doesn't fit, because he's still alive! I can't think of a thing!" Lestrade said, exasperated. He turned to Hopkins. "Can you think of anything, Stan?"

Hopkins shrugged. "Unauthorized transfer of a corpse to the States, maybe? Although that still doesn't fit, since he isn't a corpse! Helping a fugitive doesn't work either, since technically he is no longer a fugitive! Of course, falsifying documents and impeding an investigation may work, but I don't think New Scotland Yard will look too popular prosecuting the person who saved Sherlock Holmes! _Hmmm._ No. Can't think of a thing, either."

Molly relaxed slightly, but still seemed wary about the whole situation. "Then why are you holding Clarky?"

Clarky groaned. "It's my fault! I accidently blew your cover story, Molly. They found out Lucky is back in London. I saw the picture and let slip that I knew him in Knoxville. I _swear_ I didn't know about him until they told me!" Clarky looked down, his faced red with shame. "I didn't mean to get you in trouble, Molly."

"Wait! So Sherlock's _here_, in London?" Molly asked, amazed.

"It would appear so, Dr. Hooper." Hopkins replied.

Molly grinned brightly, looking relieved. "_Thank God!_ I'm so happy to hear that!" Molly's face softened as she looked at Clarky. "I'm sorry about all this, Clarky. I should have told you, but I didn't want you involved in case something like _this_ happened!"

Clarky nodded as he gave her a lopsided smile. "Next time, let me know when you are helping one of our friends fake his or her death, so I don't put my foot in my mouth! It doesn't taste too good! I can still taste leather and shoe polish!"

Molly smiled at Clarky's joke and nodded, and then she hesitantly turned to John. Her smile faltered. "And I'm really sorry, John. I know I should have told you."

John looked at Molly with an expression full of accusation and hurt. Unlike Clarky, he was not in the mood to forgive so easily. "You _knew_ I was hurting, Molly! All those times! At the hospital, at the funeral, all those other times…_you saw what his death did to me!_ And then, after the tape came out, you still stayed silent, even when Sherlock was no longer in any danger! How can you be so damn _heartless_?"

"I didn't have a choice!" Molly cried, voice cracking with emotion. "I know you were in pain! I saw it every time I ran into you! Do you have any idea how much I _wanted _to tell you? To tell all of you! But I _couldn't_! Sherlock made me promise never to tell anyone!"

"Then why did Sherlock continue to hide, even after he was proved innocent?" Donovan asked.

"It was never about Sherlock's safety!" Molly said miserably, tears finally sliding down her face. "It was about yours! Don't you get it? If Jim's men knew that Sherlock was still alive, they would not hesitate to shoot John, Ms. Hudson, and Lestrade like Jim wanted them to!"

"So Sherlock decides to make that decision for us? He didn't _trust_ any of us?" John asked insistently. "He trusted you enough. But why didn't he trust me!"

Molly shook her head. "You _still_ don't understand, do you, John? You are Sherlock's friend! It would _destroy_ him if anything happened to you! If you knew, you would have chased after him and tried to help him. He didn't want you to live your life on the run, like he's doing!"

"IT'S NOT HIS DECISION TO MAKE!" John yelled.

"Hey, hold on!" Clarky jumped up from his chair. "Let's not all scream at Molly, for goodness sakes! She helped a friend who asked for it! Give her a break!"

"No, he's right, Clarky." Molly muttered sadly, finally sinking into the chair that Mycroft had offered her. "_I do deserve it._ A hundred times over. But I promised Sherlock I wouldn't tell anyone! When we were still in contact those first few months, I _begged_ him to come back. I told him what his death was doing to you! But he said life on the run would be harder to deal with! He said that you were tough, a soldier…and that you would move on with your life eventually!" Molly sniffed and wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

"He said…that you were all better off without him! That you were all safer and happier without him! And that if I told anyone, you would be captured, tortured, and even killed! _What was I supposed to do?_" Molly asked.

"Do we _look_ like we have moved on, Molly?" John asked softly.

"No. And I _told_ Sherlock that! But you know how he is! Once he sets his mind to something, you can't sway him!" Molly shot back, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"But why would he trust you, Dr. Hooper? Why come to you?" Mycroft asked. He hadn't meant it to come across as condescending, but it did nevertheless. Molly turned to stare accusingly at Mycroft.

"And why should he bother to come to _you_, Mr. Holmes?" Molly sneered.

Mycroft sighed. "_Touché_, my dear. I did not mean to insinuate that you are not intelligent or capable. But I know my brother. He is often not ruled by his emotions. He would have made his decision logically. So I ask this again, and I am asking without any intent whatsoever of demeaning your trustworthiness or resourcefulness. Why you?"

Molly turned pensive for a moment. "I asked Sherlock that very question, the last time we talked face to face. _Why me?_ He knew John would have followed him to the ends of the earth, and that you had unlimited resources. When I asked Sherlock, he told me that the reason he agreed to accept my help was because I was invisible."

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Lestrade asked.

"It means that you were all being watched by Jim's men! Sherlock even speculated that there were ones in the British Government and the Yard right now! But Jim didn't think _I_ was worth watching. He didn't even bother to put a sniper on me." Despite everything, there was an underlying current of pride in Molly's voice. "And that is what made me useful. And it kept me safe! No one notices me."

"_I_ notice you." Clarky said abruptly, ignoring the smirks he was getting from Donovan, Hopkins, and Anderson.

Molly turned to look at Clarky and gave him a sad smile. "I know, Clarky. And I appreciate it. No matter what, you _never_ have taken me for granted. So when Sherlock needed a place to hide, I immediately thought of you. I knew you would keep him safe. I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth, but I thought it was safer if you didn't know."

Clarky snickered. "Someone safe with _me_? Are you serious? And I did a great job, didn't I? Only let Lucky leave even when my gut told me something was wrong!" Clarky finished sarcastically. "Seems your trust in me was not deserved."

"I wouldn't say that, Clarky. From the way you described it, at least you kept Sherlock entertained for a few months." Hopkins chided gently.

Clarky snorted humorlessly. "Believe me when I tell you this, Stan. The man was anything but _entertained!_ I have seen more life from a _corpse_ compared to him. The man was depressed so often, rarely speaking, wouldn't sleep…well, let's just say he was not enjoying his time abroad."

John was lost in his own thoughts, barely listening to the conversation around him.

He wanted so much to find Sherlock, if only to yell and scream and demand an explanation from him.

_He had no right to do this to him! None!_

_He wanted to shake the man by the shoulders for daring to think that he would get over Sherlock's death so easily. _

_He wanted to punch the idiotic man in the face until he got at least a small understanding of the pain he put John through. _

But, from the way Clarky described things, Sherlock was not exactly living the fine life, either.

And Molly kept insisting that Sherlock was only trying to protect him…

_I'll deal with all of this later. _

_Right now, the important thing is that Sherlock is alive. _

"I'm sorry for yelling at you, Molly." John addressed the tearful woman. "I'm not angry with you. I shouldn't take it out on you." He finished glumly.

Molly looked critically at John. "Don't be so quick to forgive me yet, John. If something happens to Sherlock…"

"You know, how do we deal with this?" Anderson piped up. "I mean, it's not like we can make missing person fliers and post them around London."

"And we can't allow anyone else to know either." Mycroft nodded, brow furrowed in thought. "Despite my irritation towards my brother's reckless actions, he is right concerning his fears regarding your safety." Mycroft paused to turn his icy blue eyes towards John. "If Moriarty finds out, then his men will stop at _nothing_ to finish what Moriarty set out for them to do."

"But if we do nothing, then Sherlock could wind up getting himself killed. _For real this time!_ Then we would _really_ be going to his funeral!" Lestrade protested. He turned hopefully to Molly. "Molly, has Sherlock been in contact with you at all?"

"Not since a few months before that tape was aired to the public. I tried calling him repeatedly, wanting to try to convince him to come home. But he wouldn't answer back! I don't know where he could be now."

"Well, at least we know he is in London. That's a start." Hopkins pointed out. "Maybe the Sherlockians could search for him, or that Homeless Network…"

"Why don't we take a closer look at the evidence from the Slasher?" Donovan asked. "Now that we know he was connected to Moriarty, maybe we can release his description to the public. I mean, there are only so many places you can hide a seven foot man who was _that_ ugly! Maybe someone will call in with information about where he was hiding."

"You know, that's not a bad idea." Lestrade mused. "We can try to find where he was staying, and hope he leads us to where Moriarty and the other bastards are. Can't hurt to try."

"But what about Sherlock?" John insisted.

"If we take down the remaining men, then there is no logical reason for Sherlock to stay hidden." Mycroft explained calmly. "If the threat of Moriarty is neutralized by us, then I deduce that Sherlock will show up on his own. And if not, I can always send out some of my men to find him, once we have regained control of the CCTV system."

"Well, when he shows up, I hope you all don't expect to see him anytime soon!" John muttered ominously.

"Why?" Lestrade asked.

"Because I plan to lock him in a room and keeping him there until he explains his actions to my satisfaction. And _apologizes_! About a million times! Maybe two million, depending on my mood!"

Lestrade grinned. "You can always lock him up in one of our holding cells, John! Personally, he has a few things to explain to _me_, too!"

Behind him, Donovan grinned, pleased to have predicted her boss's reaction earlier.

"And you all wonder _why_ he is probably still hiding!" Clarky pointed out sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "I feel like I'm in a '_let's all gang up on Lucky_' meeting! And he doesn't even know you are on to him yet! If he does, he may go hide in _Siberia!_"

"We _do_ have a holding facility there." Mycroft said matter-of-factly.

"_Okay…_" Clarky said, staring at Mycroft warily. "Mr. Holmes, no offense, but you _really_ need to see a shrink sometime. Because you have some _serious_ issues to deal with. Just a thought!"

Clarky then turned his attention back to the others. "I'm going to put in my two cents, in case anyone cares to listen to the good old country boy. _Don't_ be too hard on the kid, alright? If he looked bad to me only a few months into this, imagine what he must be going through now! Don't make him wish he actually _did_ jump off that roof!"

Mycroft gave Clarky an appraising glare. "What are you suggesting, Dr. Clarkson?"

Clarky threw his arms up in a gesture of surrender. "Me, I don't know how you Brits operate! All my prior knowledge comes from watching movies, and all they show is you all being stiff all the time and only showing affection to horses and dogs! So _clearly_ I don't know that much! I can tell you all feel a bit ticked off because you feel that Lucky… sorry, _Sherlock _betrayed your trust! _I get that!_ And I even agree with the part of locking him up somewhere for a spell. Preferably so you can force-feed him!"

John laughed out loud, the tension he was under relaxing somewhat. "Are you telling me Sherlock _still_ wouldn't eat? I swear, that man is helpless when it comes to caring for himself!"

Clarky snickered. "Man was just skin and bones when _I_ knew him. If my Grandma Lily was still around and saw him, she would have tied him to a rocking chair and fed him till he gained about a hundred pounds! As it was, all the girls at the lab brought him home-cooked meals all the time. He barely touched them, though. Mostly shared them with the rest of us, or gave them to the homeless people around town! Went on and on about how digestion slowed him down and whatever nonsense he believed in!"

John grinned. "That _doesn't_ surprise me."

Clarky nodded. "So I agree with the part of keeping him indoors for a bit, if only to make sure that there are no more of super villain Moriarty's little minions running around, wanting to kill _him._ _But for goodness sakes_, don't make him feel like you are never going to forgive him! At least give the man a chance to defend himself before putting his head on the chopping block or whatever you do over here! Hell, if I was in his place, I may have done the same thing, if it meant keeping my friends safe!"

Lestrade nodded and smiled slightly. "Point taken, Clarky. Looks like you really like Sherlock."

"The man is, as you Brits would say, _an arse_. But yeah! I'll admit it. _I like the kid!_ Once you got past the quirks and the rudeness, you could tell he wanted to help. He just pretended that he didn't, you know? Probably helped him cope with it all. This job gets tough, and sometimes you have to disconnect from it if you want to help the victims." Clarky replied.

Anderson and Donovan looked quickly at each other and shared a significant glance before looking away again. Both of them looked troubled.

John noticed this silent exchange and deduced that they were re-evaluating their previous experiences with Sherlock and were feeling guilty about some of their judgments_. _

_I'd like to think so, even though the man is a royal git!_

"Can't we worry about this all _after_ we find Sherlock?" Hopkins spoke up. "If he is in London, then it is only a matter of time before he goes after Moriarty."

The conversation was interrupted when the door opened, revealing one of the guards. "Sir, I am sorry to disturb you, but Mr. Douglas is on the phone. He says that is important that he speaks to you right now."

"Thank you, Captain. Gentlemen, ladies, if you would excuse me for a few minutes." Mycroft stood up gracefully from his chair and stepped out of the room.

John looked back at Molly, still huddled in her chair, as though afraid that she would now be subjected to more accusations now that Mycroft had left the room. She looked concerned too, no doubt worrying about Sherlock.

A wave of pity overran John. Unlike the others, Molly had to live with her guilt at keeping Sherlock's actions a secret, as well as being anxious for his welfare.

_And she had to do all of that alone._

"Molly, I really am sorry about earlier. And I want to say thank you for helping to save Sherlock." John said sincerely. Now that his anger had receded, he felt ashamed of his earlier display of temper and feared that Molly may not forgive him.

Molly nodded. She was no longer crying, and had once again asserted control over herself. The only sign of her emotions earlier was a slight red twinge present in her eyes, but otherwise she appeared calm. "I am sorry too, John. For not telling you. I _told_ Sherlock it was a big mistake."

"That's something we will both reiterate to him when we find him." John said.

"_If _we find him." Anderson muttered. "How do you find a _ghost?_"

"And what is he is wearing one of his disguises?" Lestrade pointed out. "We don't know what to look for. He may be dressing up as a delivery man, or serving Moriarty his tea for all we know!"

"As long as he poisons Moriarty, then that will be fine with me." John said.

The conversation was interrupted by the reappearance of Mycroft, who calmly walked back into the room. "Gentlemen, ladies, I have just received word from Mr. Douglas. It seems that my niece has succeeded in discovering Moriarty's password."

"You have a niece?" Molly asked. "I didn't know you had another sibling! I thought it was just you and Sherlock."

John grimaced.

_How will Molly feel about Sheridan?_

"Long story short, Sherlock has a daughter he only found out about a year ago. She came to us earlier today. It is through her that we learned about Sherlock's continued existence in the land of the living." Lestrade summarized.

"_Oh!_" Molly said, surprised. "I see." She narrowed her eyes in thought before turning toward Anderson and smirked. "I bet you all _five quid_ that Anderson here didn't take the news too well!"

Anderson just snorted dismissively and rolled his eyes.

Molly then turned back to Mycroft, a genuine smile lighting her features. "Well, good for Sherlock! I'm happy for him. But why don't you ask _her_ where he's at?"

"Because he's missing. Sheridan said he disappeared a few days ago, and she has been trying to find him ever since." Mycroft related.

"_What?_" Molly said, getting out of her chair. "Then what are you all standing around for? Are you his friends, or what!"

"Calm down, Molly." Lestrade pleaded. "We are doing everything we can, but there is more than just Sherlock's life at stake here!"

Molly looked at Lestrade's face and sighed. She sank back into her chair. "So what do you need?"

"Information, to start with." Mycroft replied. "How did Sherlock fake his suicide?"

Molly rubbed her temple with her left hand. "Simple. He actually did jump off the ledge. He landed in the back of a truck filled with insulation from the construction they were doing at the hospital. The insulation helped to cushion the blow, but even so, he still dislocated his shoulder and bruised some ribs."

"He got injured!?" John asked, shocked.

"He told _us _at the Body Farm that he fell off a roof! So he told the truth about _that_ part!" Clarky said, eyes narrowed in thought. "Well, he didn't say he _jumped!_ Hmm. I guess Lucky really _does_ have a death wish!"

Molly nodded. "A couple of his people from the Homeless Network were disguised to help complete the illusion. One person was equipped with a bag of blood to throw on him at the last second, so it would look real. That way, anyone who came to identify the body wouldn't be able to tell that he was still alive. He also slowed down his pulse through the use of a stress ball, which he had squeezed to his side. Another person was set to distract you, John, giving Sherlock and them enough time to stage the scene. The man wasn't supposed to run you over, though. Sherlock was _not _happy about you getting hurt."

"He jumped off the ledge _for real_?" Lestrade gasped. "What if he missed and hit the pavement? Is he _insane_?"

"Are you _seriously_ asking that question?" Anderson piped up.

"_Enough!_" Mycroft stated, his voice echoing in the small room. "Please continue, Dr. Hooper."

Molly sighed. "The rest was easy enough. Once he was in the morgue, I gave him an injection that lowered his heart rate to near-dormant levels, in case anyone came to view the body. Afterwards, I faked the autopsy reports and exchanged Sherlock with the corpse of a guy who had died recently from an accident. The man resembled Sherlock enough to pass for him, and had wounds similar to what you would expect for someone who fell off a building. The man was homeless, with no one to claim his body or cared enough to claim him. He got high the day before and fell off a roof."

"How ironic!" Anderson commented dryly.

Molly continued. "Because of the injuries to the body, they had to hold a closed-casket service, so no one could notice the difference. In the meantime, Sherlock hid out in my flat for a few days, while I made some arrangements for him to leave the country. He only left once, I think, to see where he was buried, and to get something out of his flat."

John was shocked, although he knew he shouldn't be at this point.

_If that was true, then did Sherlock witness John at his grave, begging him to return? _

_What was he feeling when he watched me pour my heart out, knowing that he could have ended my pain right then?_

Molly continued, obviously relieved to finally explain what had really happened all those months ago. "A few days after the burial, he boarded a plane to Tennessee. I had already contacted Clarky, who told me they had an opening where he worked. I figured that the Body Farm was the one place where Sherlock could act like himself and no one would care!"

"You thought right!" Clarky snickered. "What better place to hide a mad genius than with other mad geniuses? All those experiments we did…_thank goodness_ you didn't send him to Oakridge! He would have learned how to make an atomic bomb by now!"

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. "He already knows how to make bombs, Dr. Clarkson. He would have been bored in a few weeks and likely would have drawn unwanted attention to himself. Perhaps even going so far as to create an international incident. So I applaud your decision, Dr. Hooper. Your wisdom concerning my brother is truly unparalleled."

Anderson looked at Donovan. "_Please_ tell me that I didn't hear right! The Freak knows how to make _explosives_?"

"How comforting that you and the Sergeant have reverted back to calling Sherlock a '_freak_' again." Mycroft muttered blandly. "And yes, Sherlock knows how to make bombs. He is rather quiet brilliant when it comes to learning how to mix ordinary household chemicals together. I cannot even _begin_ to relate how many times the kitchen was destroyed during my childhood."

"So the man sings, makes bombs, has a daughter, fakes his death, and goes after a bloody madman and his army of criminals on his own!" Lestrade muttered under his breath. "Another damn surprise! _Why not!_"

"Back to the current situation, people!" Hopkins said irritably. "Where the _bloody hell_ is Sherlock Holmes?"

"Simple." Donovan replied. "Find Moriarty, then you find Sherlock."

"I hope he's alright." Molly commented quietly.

John nodded resolutely.

_I'll find you Sherlock. I'll not rest until you are safe!_

_And then you are going to have a lot of explaining to do!_

* * *

"John, what's going on?" Mary asked, bewildered. "Who are these men?"

Mary was still in her room, dressed and ready to leave the hospital. She expected John to be there, but not the armed guards who escorted him.

"We are here to move you to a safe location, Ms. Morstan." Said one of the men Mycroft had sent with John. "If you would take a few moments to get ready, we can leave."

"WHAT?" Mary gasped.

"Mary, listen to me very carefully." John said, taking Mary by the shoulders. "This is going to sound crazy."

"What do you mean?" Mary asked, looking at John with alarm.

"Mary, Sherlock is alive!" John blurted out.

"_What?_" Mary gasped. She looked at John quizzically. At any other time, she would have asked if John was feeling well.

_But with the men around them acting so seriously…_

"John, _what_ are you talking about? Sherlock died a year and a half ago!" Mary exclaimed.

"That's what he wanted us all to think. Turns out Sherlock faked his death and went after Moriarty without anyone else knowing." John explained.

"How can you _know_ that?" Mary asked.

"Because his daughter came to us today and told us." John replied.

Mary's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. "I didn't know Sherlock had a daughter!"

"Neither did we. Her mother is Danielle Morray." John said glumly.

"Wait! Danielle Morray? _Moriarty's sister? _ The one who had been working against him?"

"Danielle Morray has been dead all this time, Mary!" John said, taking Mary's hands into his own. "It turns out that Sherlock has been behind it all! _He_ has been the one taking Moriarty's web down! No one suspected him, because we all thought he was _dead!_"

"_Oh my God!_" Mary said, slowly sitting down in a nearby chair.

"Yeah. I _know!_" John said.

"Ms. Morstan? We need to move you and Dr. Watson to a place of safety." The unidentified guard repeated again. "You need to come along with us now. Dr. Watson can explain more along the way."

Mary nodded absently, her eyes dazed, as though she wasn't really paying attention.

John bent down on the floor in front of Mary and gently took her hand in his own. "Mary, listen to me. No matter what happens, I need to make sure you stay safe. Mycroft is waiting outside, and he is going to take us somewhere secure until we tract down Moriarty."

Mary continued to stare ahead, causing John's heart to plummet.

It took him a while to get to this point, but he realized that he actually loved Mary.

_Loved her enough that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her._

_Perhaps the possibility of losing her put things into perspective for him. _

But for whatever reason, Dr. John Watson, the "man of three continents," had finally found someone that he actually wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

And here he was, dragging her into the tumultuous life that he himself had embraced. She was now in danger, all because of him. His heart shrank with guilt as he wondered anew how he was ever supposed to stay with her without exposing her to the risks.

"Mary, I am so sorry." John whispered sincerely.

"He said my name." Mary muttered.

"What?" The guard asked, looking puzzled.

"_He said my name!_" Mary said as she jumped out of her chair. She turned back to John, her voice shaking with excitement at her revelation. "John, the man who rescued me from the Slasher! The man in the blue coat! He called me 'Ms. Morstan!'"

John grabbed Mary's arms to steady her. "Mary, what are you talking about?"

"_The man!_ The one who rescued me! _He knew my name!_" Mary said, her eyes aglow with realization. "_How does a stranger know my name, John?_" She asked significantly.

John grasped Mary tighter as he looked into her blue eyes. "Are you saying…"

"That man had to have been _Sherlock!_" Mary yelled. "How else did he know my name? Why was he there, at the right place at the right time? And why else would he have run from the authorities?"

Feeling his knees slowly turn to jam, John sunk into the chair that Mary vacated mere seconds ago to avoid collapsing into the floor.

_Was Mary right? Was the mysterious rescuer actually Sherlock?_

"Oh my God! Don't you see? It all makes _sense_ now!" Mary said, her face excited. "I could never get it out of my head! Why did a homeless man know my name? Why did I have the feeling that I knew him before? _It's the only explanation!_"

Not-Anthea walked into the hospital room, Black Berry in hand. "Dr. Watson, Ms. Morstan, we need to depart. Mr. Holmes is waiting."

"What was your name this week, again?" John asked, turning suddenly to Not-Anthea.

Not-Anthea frowned. "It is 'Melissa' this week, Dr. Watson."

"Can you tell me Sherlock's blood type?" John asked, rising from the chair.

Not-Anthea cocked her head to the side. "I don't have that information, Doctor."

"Well, _Melissa_, can you ask your boss what blood type Sherlock has? It's important!" John ordered.

Not-Anthea was not pleased, even though her cultivated face gave nothing away. Wordlessly, she typed something on her Black Berry.

"John? Why do you want to know Sherlock's blood type?" Mary asked, puzzled.

"Technically, I should remember what it is, since I was his physician. But it's been so long ago." John said, rubbing his temples. "Lestrade said earlier that they found two blood types at the scene. One was O positive, and it matched the Golem."

"_Who?_" Mary asked, looking bewildered.

"The Slasher." John corrected himself. "The man who attacked you. I knew him as the Golem. He worked for Moriarty."

"Doctor Watson? I just texted your question to my employer and received an answer. Mr. Holmes says that Sherlock's blood type is the same as his." Not-Anthea reported after looking up from her Black Berry.

"And that would be _what_?" John prompted.

"AB positive." Not-Anthea responded.

* * *

"There is still no proof that Sherlock is the guy!" Anderson muttered. "Blood typing is imprecise. We still need to wait for the full DNA analysis to be sure! That could take weeks!"

"My people have the necessary technology that they could do it in a few hours." Mycroft mused. "Dr. Anderson, where is the sample now?"

"Back at my lab, at the Met." Anderson replied.

"Wonderful! Then my people will retrieve the sample, so that we may run a full DNA comparison!" Mycroft said calmly.

"_Oi!_ No one messes with my evidence!" Anderson protested.

"Anderson, stop it!" Lestrade said. "Right now, we need to know if the guy who saved Mary is Sherlock or not! That is a _little_ more important on my list than preserving evidence for a bloody inquest!"

"But what if it _is_ Sherlock?" John asked significantly. "You heard what Stan and Sally said! Whoever was there lost a significant amount of blood!"

Lestrade nodded. "I don't like this! Assuming it is Sherlock, then we know he will _never _go to a hospital! He could have bled out, or went into shock, or..."

Mycroft grunted. "We can discuss this further once we transport Ms. Morstan to safety. The location isn't too far from London, and my niece will be awaiting our arrival. Perhaps she can be useful in determining the answer to this puzzle."

"What other explanation makes sense?" John demanded. "What are the chances of another man, who just happens to know who Mary is and has the same rare blood type, just happens to be stalking the Slasher and doesn't stick around to talk to the Yard?"

"I am not discounting the possibility, John." Mycroft said calmly. "I am merely hoping to get confirmation of the facts. Regardless, Sheridan may hold the key to determining where my brother will go next."

John sighed. _They were right, of course_. "So what do we do?"

"First, we escort Ms. Morstan and Dr. Hooper to the safe house." Mycroft explained. "Then, we try to determine what Moriarty's ultimate goals are and, through them, ascertain my brother's next probable move."

"Then we better get going!" Lestrade replied. "Hopefully this kid can help us find Sherlock. At the very least, I want to talk to her and find out what Sherlock has been up to the last few years!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, we are still dealing with the fallout, aren't we? Now Molly and Mary know that Sherlock is alive! At this rate, everyone in London will know before the day is out!

So how do you all like Molly? She's not so timid anymore, is she? I bet Mycroft is kicking himself for not including her into the group dedicated to destroy Moriarty's empire sooner. Considering it took all of _one minute_ for her to confess, they could have found out the truth a year ago!

Of course, Clarky knew some information too, even though he wasn't aware of it! It's a shame the rest of the Yarders and John didn't pick up on the smiliarities between "Lucky" and Sherlock. But that is just how things work out, I guess!

I hope the rest of the group really take Clarky and Molly seriously from now on!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock!" However, my offer still stands! If Sherlock ever gets tired of London, he can move here! Or at least vacation over here! Or whatever! We American fan girls can share!

**Sylvia Anderson**-Clarky, I'm still at a loss to understand how you like Sherlock so much!

**OC Clarky**-What's not to like? He solves crimes in record time, so we can leave work early! Also, he appreciates the need for experiments!

**Stanley Hopkins**-Clarky, in the last chapter, you were saying something about putting bodies on golf carts…

**OC Clarky** (laughing)-Oh, that was one of my favorites! You see, someone was killed when his golf cart drove over a hidden explosive at a golf course. However, at the time, we didn't know if the bomb was planted on the golf cart itself, or if it was hidden underground. So we got some golf carts, arranged for them to be driven around by a remote control, and then tested them, either by blowing them up, or driving them over some mines until we got a result that closely resembled our crime scene!

**Stanley Hopkins**-So while the rest of us go and watch the local rugby game, you spend your time, with _Sherlock_, blowing up bodies!

**OC Clarky**-We needed to figure out where the bomb was planted! It wasn't as if we had research to show the evidence left behind after blowing up a golf cart! I mean, you usually don't expect to be blown up while playing a round of golf!

**Sylvia Anderson**-Sounds like a crazy way to kill someone!

**OC Clarky**-That's what was so sad about the whole thing! The death turned out to be a tragic accident! You see, the golf course had a gopher problem, and one of their employees thought he would bomb the poor critters off the course! I guess he watched the movie "Caddyshack" one time too many! So he planted a few home-made bombs, and the poor victim happened to drive over one! Real sad, actually. I think I would have preferred a murder!

**Sylvia Anderson** (laughing)-What else do you expect from the land of rotting corpses and shock blankets?

**Peaceful Defender**-Tennessee has much more than that! I just wrote about the parts that would have appealed to Sherlock! I mean, I don't see him going to a barbeque or a football game (american football), do you?

**OC Clarky**-Well, one time, we drug him to one, but it didn't go too well!

**Peaceful Defender**-Why? What did he do?

**OC Clarky** (blushing)-Actually, it was what I did! I put too much gasoline on the grill! But let me tell you, I never saw a grill fly so high before! A neighbor actually called the local authorities to report a UFO in the area! The problem came when Lucky decided to recreate the crime scene to show the officers what really happened, only this time the grill landed on their patrol car!

**Peaceful Defender** (shaking her head)-And to think _you_ came from my imagination! Reviews, please!


	23. Chapter 22

**Warning: Long, complex analysis of "gift" that separates Sheridan, Danielle, and Moriarty from the rest of us normal people. Also features some suggestive language and illusions of corporal punishment. Also some nudity, and a very happy birthday girl! Read at your own risk!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Two: Motivation**

"For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first." Suzanne Collins, _The Hunger Games_

* * *

The sun was setting outside when they arrived, its golden rays casting colorful shadows on the countryside as they left the crowded streets of London behind.

It was agreed that Molly and Mary would remain at a secure location until Moriarty was found and dealt with. Neither woman seemed to be particularly thrilled about the idea, but was eventually convinced to do so, especially at the behest of Clarky and John.

Mycroft's 'safe house' turned out to be a beautifully manicured property a few miles outside London. From the outside, the polished brick building appeared to be a well-maintained family manor, complete with stables, gardens, and a separate guest house. Columns flanked the entrance doorway.

"It's so beautiful!" Mary said, impressed despite herself.

She, John, and Mycroft rode in one car, Mycroft's Rolls Royce, while the rest of the group traveled in three separate vehicles, complete with armed guards.

Mycroft nodded in agreement. "This is one of the homes that we use for guests that may have to stay out of sight for a significant period of time. It looks unsecure, but the protection surrounding it is highly state-of-the-art."

Mary glanced back at the posh government official. "Tell me more about this girl! Sherlock's daughter! How is she doing?" Mary asked.

Mycroft awarded Mary with an enigmatic smile. "As well as can be expected, all things considered! She seems fairly pleased with herself that she cracked Moriarty's password so effortlessly. It turned out to be 'Cassandra,' a literary figure whom Moriarty once compared to his sister."

"How do you get '_Cassandra_' out of '_Danielle'_? Why would he call her that?" John asked.

"Historical significance. Cassandra was the name of a princess from Troy who foresaw that the city would fall, but she was under a curse, as her prophecies were never believed. So she watched as Troy was overrun and destroyed." Mycroft explained.

"So Moriarty saw Danielle as 'Cassandra' because she tried to warn people how dangerous her brother was, but no one believed her?" Mary asked.

"So it would seem. Ms. Morray tried to warn her family before they were killed. She also tried to tell me about the danger posed by Moriarty. In hindsight, I should have taken her warnings more seriously." Mycroft answered. His clipped tone carried a small hint of regret.

"Well, you can make up for it by keeping her daughter safe from harm." Mary said sympathetically.

Mycroft gave a soft sigh as the car parked in front of the manor. "Sheridan appears to be reasonably intelligent. But I have no idea as to her attained level of education. She informed my assistant that she has never had a chance to go to school, as she had to live 'off the grid.' So whatever instruction she has had would have come first from Ms. Morray and then from my brother."

Mycroft's voice remained bland, but there was a hint of concern that he could not hide. "I _shudder_ to think what type of educational instruction Sheridan has received!"

Mary smiled brightly. "Well, if that is the case, I can talk to her and find out! I am an educator, you know. And it will help to pass the time until Moriarty is captured."

John gave Mary a knowing grin. "Just make sure she knows that the Earth revolves around the Sun."

* * *

"Hi, John! Hi, Mycroft!" Sheridan waved cheerfully from behind the expensive wooden desk. Sometime within the few hours since he last saw her, Not-Anthea must have ensured that the girl had access to a bath and shower, as well as a change of clothes. She was now wearing a navy cashmere sweater, clean jeans, and comfortable trainers that looked brand new.

As a result, Sheridan was now clean, free from the dirt and grime that partially masked her features earlier.

It also served to further accentuate her resemblance to Sherlock.

Sitting in another chair behind the desk was Chase, who was hunched over the portable lap top with a look of fierce concentration. Upon observing the two men enter the room, his features lit up with delight.

"Hi John! Hey, DMP! What's up, my man?" Chase asked Mycroft.

"The situation continues to change by the minute, Mr. Douglas, as I am sure you are aware. You have met my niece, I see."

"Of course I did, DMP! Heck, if I knew you were related to the _Chimera_ earlier…" Chase jumped out of his chair and got down on his knees in front of Mycroft, raising his arms up and down in a gesture of mock-worship. "WE ARE UNWORTHY, O GREAT ONE! WE ARE UNWORTHY!"

"Enough with the theatrics, Mr. Douglas! Do we now have control of the CCTV system?" Mycroft said impatiently, ignoring the smirks that Chase's behavior was eliciting from John.

"Everything is under our control now, Uncle Mycroft!" Sheridan answered from her seat. "Chase and I are finishing running a system wide security scan, in case there are any hidden viruses or wormholes. When we are done, we can transport the system back to your subordinates. Chase and I already blocked Moriarty's entry port, too. There's no way he can get the system back now!"

"Excellent work, my dear! And you as well, Mr. Douglas. Although I would prefer that you got off the floor and back to work." Mycroft said mildly. "Has my assistant apprised you of the recent developments?"

"You mean about Sherlock being alive? _Hell, yes!_ _Isn't it great?_ I mean, all this time we thought that it was _Delphi_ who faked her death to take down her brother, only for it to be your brother instead!" Chase said, bubbling over with excitement. "_Talk about a plot twist! _Wait till my friends at Fan Fiction find out!"

"Mr. Douglas, _concentrate_, please! I wish to talk to my niece, and I need you to continue to monitor the system and transfer control of Moriarty's organization to my people. Can you do that?" Mycroft stated sternly.

"Yeah, sure, DMP! I'm on it!" Chase said as he stumbled off the floor.

"Good. Sheridan, my dear, would you come with me, please?"

"Ok, Uncle Mycroft. Bye, Chase! I'll see you later." Sheridan said as she got out of her chair and followed Mycroft out of the study.

"You better not take her away yet, DMP! _Chimera_ is still teaching me some new tricks of the trade!" Chase yelled at Mycroft's retreating back.

Mycroft shook his head in resignation as he left the room and closed the door on Chase, leaving him to get back to work. He turned to look down at his niece. "Sheridan, I would like you to meet some people. They know your father and wish to help locate him."

Sheridan looked at John. "Will John be with us?"

"Yes, my dear. We have some questions, you see, and we believe that your father may have said something that will reveal his location." Mycroft said gently.

Sheridan nodded. "I'll do the best I can!"

* * *

"So what is her name again? Sherlyn, or something?" Lestrade asked.

"_Sheridan_." Donovan replied. "But she will answer to Sheri."

"Weird name." Anderson noted. "Did her mother combine her name with Sherlock's and come up with it, or what?"

Clarky snorted from his seat. "I already looked it up on the internet. 'Sheridan' is a unisex name from Ireland. It means 'to seek or find.'"

"Her mother must have put a lot of thought behind it when she picked it out." Mary said quietly.

The conversation was interrupted when the doors to the great room opened. Mycroft walked through the ornate doors first. Following behind was John, with Sheridan by his side. The room lapsed into silence as the guests paused to stare openly at the girl.

They couldn't help it. It was clear to everyone that the child _greatly_ resembled Sherlock.

John cleared his throat, feeling rather annoyed with everyone in the room as they gawked openly at Sheridan, as though she was some sort of medical oddity or a rare animal in an enclosure.

Sheridan, however, took the stares she received with an easy grace.

Mycroft decided to break the silence. "Sheridan, I know you already met Dr. Anderson, Dr. Clarkson, and Sergeant Donovan. Allow me to introduce our other guests. The gentleman there is Detective Inspector Stanley Hopkins…"

"He was the one who found the tape with Dad and Moriarty." Sheridan interrupted. "Dad doesn't know him, though, but he said he must have some intelligence, even if he works at the Yard, so he would like to meet him one day. And Dad already told me about the people he worked with, so I know who they are! The man with gray in his hair is Greg Lestrade. And the woman with her hair up is Dr. Molly Hooper. She worked at St. Bart's morgue when Dad saw her last. And the blonde hair woman must be Mary Morstan. Dad said she was a client several years ago."

Molly blushed slightly as she smiled at Sheridan. "What else did your father say about me?"

Sheridan grinned. "That you like cats and the color pink! That you always paid attention to detail, because you never forgot what type of coffee everyone likes and you sometimes caught things at autopsies that others would miss. And that you were smarter than most people realized, but you did a very good job at hiding it." Sheridan replied quietly.

Lestrade coughed and stepped forward. "I _hate_ to ask what your father said about me!"

Sheridan appraised Lestrade curiously. "He said that you worked at the Yard, and that you care more about solving cases than you do about your pride, which made you the best of the Yarders. And that you helped him get off drugs by giving him cases. I'm very glad you did! Drugs are bad, you know! Mom and Dad both said I should _never _take them, or I could end up being stupid!"

Lestrade felt rather uncomfortable. When he learned Sherlock Holmes, of all people, had a child and was raising her, he expected to meet…Well, he didn't know _what_ to expect!

_And Sherlock actually lecturing Sheridan on the dangers of drug use? Talk about irony!_

He had to give Sherlock credit, though. The girl _seemed_ healthy and well-adjusted.

And the kid sure looked like a little miniature version of Sherlock, complete with the cheek bones, the mass of dark curls, the pale skin, and those strange bluish-green eyes.

_But how much was she like him personality-wise? Could she really do that 'deduction' thing?_

Sheridan smiled as she studied Lestrade's expression. "You recently injured yourself while hanging a picture, then hurt your neck when you lifted something too heavy."

Lestrade's eyes felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets. "How…"

"Did I know that? Simple! As to you hanging a picture, you have a small bandage to cover the injury to your hand where you hit your thumb with a tool. A hammer, actually. You also tried to lift something and hurt your neck, because one side of your shirt is more ruffled than the other, which means you have been reaching up to message your neck on one side. Since the rest of your shirt is wrinkle free, this could only have occurred after you put it on." Sheridan finished her explanation and smiled broadly. "And to answer your question, yes, I can '_see_' like Dad does! It gives me headaches sometimes, though. Dad is teaching me how to use it better!"

"Incredible!" Mary whispered, in awe at the demonstration she witnessed.

"Told you, Greg!" Donovan smirked.

Sheridan cocked her head to the side, studying Lestrade's face. Her confident expression softened as her face turned sympathetic. "You are angry with Dad, aren't you? But you are worried about him too! You are afraid something could happen to him. You also feel guilty about what happened. You shouldn't. Dad doesn't blame you! I don't blame you either!"

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft, obviously looking for an explanation. "_How…_"

"How was Sheridan able to deduce your _emotions?_ It is rather difficult to explain. Although she would seem to be an empath, with the ability to feel other people's emotions, that definition is too narrow." Mycroft explained.

Sheridan nodded. "I can feel what people around me feel. Mom could do it too. She could feel what others around her felt, and it bothered her. I can feel what other people around me feel too! When I was younger, I couldn't control it. I couldn't control the 'seeing' that Dad does either."

"So you can feel what we are all feeling? Right now?" John asked, feeling his anxiety rise.

_If Sheri could feel their distress, how would that affect her?_

Sheridan shook her head. "Mom said that when she first met Dad, he was able to block his emotions from her to where she had difficulty reading them. For some reason, I have it too. I am able to separate myself from my emotions sometimes, because it helps me 'see' better, so Mom sometimes had a difficult time getting a reading from me. But when I do that, I also can't feel what other people around me are feeling. So I can't use both at the same time."

"But your mother was unable to detach herself from her feelings, which made it difficult for her to continue working for a criminal organization. It was hard for her when she sympathized with her supposed 'enemies.'" Mycroft noted dryly.

Sheridan nodded again. "Mom called it _intuitive feeling_, and said that some of our family have it, though not at the level that Mom did! That is why Moriarty is so dangerous. He has it as well."

"How does _feeling emotions_ make him dangerous? I figured that would make him less a psychopath!" Anderson asked, completely mystified.

Sheridan paused, absently tugging on a lock of her hair. "It's difficult to explain, but I'll try. Moriarty can _detect_ other people's emotions, but he can't _feel_ any himself! Mom said it was like people around us are like mirrors, and you sometimes reflect your emotions back to us!"

"So you can actually _feel_ other people's emotions?" Donovan asked.

Sheridan nodded, yet still seemed uncomfortable. "Yes. But I don't always know what the cause is. Mom was much better at it! She could sense what another person was feeling, even when she couldn't _see_ the person! They just had to be nearby! So she was always able to sense when the Bad Men were close. For some reason, I can control mine better, and can even turn it off completely most of the time, when I need to."

"How strong can it get?" Hopkins asked.

Sheridan's young face became drawn as she considered her answer. When she spoke again, her tone was much wiser, as though an adult was speaking, and not a child. "Once, I felt it when one of the Bad Men spotted Mom and me, and he was watching us from a building a block away from us. He was excited, and then he was frightened, when he realized that Mom and I could feel that he was watching us. The worst time was when I was in the hospital, and the Bad Men killed that nice doctor! I..._felt_ how afraid he was before they shot him! It was _awful_!"

John felt his heart go out to Sheridan, and, by extension, Danielle Morray. Even though this "_intuitive_ _feeling_," or whatever it was, explained how Danielle was always able to keep one step ahead of the assassins and kidnappers that Moriarty sent after her and Sheridan, she must have been in constant misery.

It would be as though John was back in Afghanistan, and he was able to actually feel the pain and fear of every man he tried to treat medically just moments before they died.

_No! It would be worse! Much, much worse! It would be like feeling the terror of an enemy combatant just seconds before you shot him!_

How did Danielle Morray do it? Sheridan, at least, has the ability to control her ability and to use it at will. But to be constantly battered by other people's emotions when you were dealing with your own, with no way to make it stop?

No wonder Danielle became such a skilled hacker! A computer didn't distract her with how it was feeling!

Was this how _Sherlock_ felt all the time? Only instead of feeling what others were feeling, you were awash in a sea of information, able to deduce a person's life story with just a glance.

_How does one deal with that?_

"Does Moriarty feel what his victims feel?" John asked, trying to fathom a reason behind Moriarty's seeming love for destruction.

Sheridan sighed. "He does! And he _enjoys_ it!"

"I still don't understand how someone with the ability to feel what others feel would go out of his way to hurt people!" Lestrade exclaimed, looking as tortured as John felt.

"Moriarty may be able to feel people's emotions. But he doesn't understand them. According to Mom, he was never able to empathize with people. So his reactions to people's pain is different. If I feel that someone is sad, then I feel sad for them! If Moriarty feels that someone is sad, it makes him happy, because he thinks that by making people hurt, it makes him feel powerful, and he tries to hurt the person more and make them feel sadder." Sheridan replied. "According to Dad, Moriarty really is a true psychopath."

"But you said something that puzzled me earlier." Hopkins said, leaning forward. "You said that Sherlock and you were able to 'block' Ms. Morray's ability?"

Sheridan smiled, looking pleased that her audience was able to understand most of what she was trying to explain. "I don't know what it is. I can feel, just like everyone else can, but sometimes I can fool myself into thinking that I can't feel any emotions. Like I can block them out. So sometimes Mom couldn't feel what I was feeling. Dad can do that too."

Suddenly, as if a light bulb went off, John realized something profoundly important. "That is why Moriarty was so determined to go after Sherlock in the first place! Besides being his intellectual equal, Moriarty finally met someone who could block what he was feeling! Sherlock must have seemed to be an actual challenge!"

Sheridan sighed, her expression becoming somber again. "Mom told me that the main reason why Moriarty is so obsessed with beating Dad and Uncle Mycroft is that they can block off their emotions, which makes them more difficult to read! If he can break _them_, then he can break anyone!"

* * *

During this entire complex exchange, Clarky, who was hopelessly lost trying to keep up with events and people that no one had told him about yet, found his attention drifting. He caught sight of something sitting on the marble fireplace, but couldn't believe what he was seeing was real.

_He needed to take a closer look._

Trying to be discrete, Clarky walked over and gently picked up the item that caught his interest. He turned it around in his hand, noting the texture, the curvature.

_Why the hell would Mr. Holmes keep one of these around?_

"What do you have there, Clarky?" Lestrade asked from behind him.

_Damn!_ Clarky thought. _Caught red-handed!_

"Uh…I was just wondering why our host has a human skull on his mantle." Clarky said, hoisting the object up for Lestrade to see.

"_Bloody hell!_" Hopkins gasped as he saw what Clarky was holding. "Is that thing _real?"_

Clarky chuckled as he held out the skull for Hopkins to see. "_Oh yeah!_ I thought it was a prop or something. But it's real! The size indicates that it likely came from an adult female!"

"Her name is Abby." Sheridan explained. "She travels with Dad and me! I asked Chase to put her up there earlier, so she could see what was going on without being in the way!"

Anderson's eyes widened in alarm. "Sherlock got his kid a _skull!_"

"Oh, I had Abby for years before I met Dad!" Sheridan explained sweetly. "Actually, a woman gave her to me in New Orléans, when I was five! The woman practiced _voodoo_, or so Mom said. She was nice though, and said Abby would protect me from monsters so I could sleep. I was younger, and I still believed in the imaginary monsters back then. I wasn't _rational_ enough to figure out that they weren't real, at least not the ones that grab you from under the bed or hide in the closet!"

John grinned when Sheridan said the word "rational."

_I bet Sherlock taught her that!_

"The woman said that the skull belonged to a witch, with powers to keep monsters away! After I stopped believing in monsters, I still kept Abby. She's _very_ good at listening, you know! She was human once, so she understands emotions better than a doll ever could! She doesn't interrupt people or anything!" Sheridan finished explaining cheerfully.

John didn't know whether to laugh at Sheridan's explanation or cry that the child found comfort in keeping a damned _skull_ around! Her life must have been so lonely. Always running from her homicidal uncle, not being able to stay in any place long enough to make friends, because she knew she would likely have to pack up and leave in the dead of night.

_And having to keep a skull just so she could have something to talk to…_

John frowned as he considered a new idea. _How lonely was Sherlock, growing up? Did he hope for friends too, only to be rejected over and over again? _

_Before John came along, did anyone come close to filling that void in Sherlock's life?_

_Maybe one person did. Danielle Morray. But what was her relationship with Sherlock, anyway? Was she just an experiment? A fellow rebel? A misfit who knew what it was like to be singled out for being different? A friend? A romantic interest? _

"It's not so bad, you know."

Looking down, John saw that Sheridan had walked up to him while he was distracted and was now looking up at him, a knowing smile on her face. "Abby is good at listening to what I say to her. She never thinks I'm weird or anything."

"But wouldn't you rather have a friend who could talk back?" John asked her. Thankfully, their discussion was ignored due to the commotion caused by Clarky going around and showing "Abby" to everyone.

John heard Anderson mutter something about "freak spawn" but he ignored it. It was often best to ignore Anderson.

Sheridan looked pensive for a moment, considering. "As long as Moriarty is around, no one should be near me! It's too dangerous for them!"

John felt his throat constrict. "Would you excuse me, Sheri? I just need to step outside for a moment."

Without waiting to hear a reply, John hurried out of the door and into the main foyer.

* * *

John was out of the room for exactly two seconds when he realized, too late, that he had no idea where the nearest exit was, or how to go outside.

_Now what? He didn't know the layout of this place!_ He felt trapped. _Dear God, he needed fresh air! The air in here is too warm!_

"Ah, John. Would you like to accompany me outside for a moment? I feel the need to stretch my legs after that exhausting ride here."

John whirled around to see Mycroft had silently followed him and was now waiting patiently for his response. His ever-present black umbrella hung loosely in his right hand.

"Uh, yeah. Sure." John muttered. Silently, he followed Mycroft as he walked through the dizzying maze of rooms that eventually lead to the gardens outside.

Almost as if they were summoned by magic, a pair of men, clad in nondescript suits and carrying firearms concealed under their coats, began to flank the men, moving out of ear-shot but not far away enough to lose sight of John or Mycroft.

Together, the two men walked in silence, their shoes crunching the leaves under them as they continued down the garden path. The sun had already set by now, but the sky was still a myriad of colors in west, with just a few stars dotting the navy sky in the east.

"It is a shame that it is autumn, don't you think?" Mycroft said, pausing to glance around at the landscape. "The path over there leads to a walled garden with rose bushes. It is truly a wondrous sight to behold in summer, when they are in full bloom."

John nodded absently. "I'm sure they are. Do you come here often?"

Mycroft smiled pleasantly. "This house has belonged to my family for many years. I use it as a safe house for important guests from time to time. But it is also close enough to London that it is no great hardship to return should the need present itself. As a matter of fact, Sherlock and I spent a few summers here, when we were younger and Father's business required that he stayed close to London."

John glanced over at Mycroft. "How old were you two when you last stayed here together?"

"Oh, I think the last time was when I was fifteen and when Sherlock was eight. It was so long ago."

"So he was the same age as Sheri." John commented.

Mycroft paused to examine a flower bed before he turned and looked back at John. "Yes. And I admit, having my niece here brings back memories of when we were closer as siblings."

John frowned. "What happened?"

Mycroft turned away to hide his expression. "It was many things, not all of which I care to divulge. Suffice to say, I left Sherlock behind when I went to University. I didn't stay to protect him. Several events happened, so Sherlock coped with it the best way he knew how."

John stared at Mycroft. "That's not very helpful."

"If Sherlock didn't see the need to confide in you, then I see no reason to do so!" Mycroft's tone was soft, but fierce.

"Sorry." John muttered. "I'm just distracted. Something Sheri said to me."

"About how dangerous it was for anyone to be her friend?" Mycroft said, turning a wiry eye to the surprised doctor. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. And you are wondering now if that is how Sherlock feels. If he believes that he should remain friendless because of the nature of his work."

"I guess so." John shrugged.

_Truth be told, that was exactly what he was thinking! _

Mycroft nodded. "You really _are_ his friend, aren't you, John? You _care _about him."

"I do." John admitted. "He saved me, by making my life meaningful again. After coming back from the war, I was not in good shape, physically or mentally. Sherlock changed that." John paused, feeling the back of his eyes burn. "And then he leaves and my life was shattered again! And I don't know how I am supposed to feel about all of this_! _I'm_ very happy _he's alive! I am _angry_ that he lied to me and put me through that! And I'm _hurt_ he didn't trust me enough to tell me! And I'm _scared to death_ the stupid bastard is going to get himself killed before I have a chance to figure it out!"

"I understand how you difficult this must be for you, John." Mycroft replied calmly. "You are conflicted. And anyone who chooses to stay in contact with my brother cannot hope to be immune from that reaction. Perhaps it would be best for you both if you ended your friendship, for your own safety, of course!"

"_WHAT?"_ John gasped. "Is _that_ what you brought me out here for? _To tell me to stop being friends with your brother?_"

Mycroft waved his hand in a placated gesture. "I am merely pointing out that my brother leads a dangerous life. I doubt he will quit it, even for the sake of his daughter. And that is _my_ problem to deal with! But _you_ have a choice! You are under no obligation…"

"YOU PATRONIZING BASTARD!" John shouted.

The two men in suits came racing forward, but Mycroft waved them off, and they retreated back.

"I am merely pointing out the facts, John! You have a fiancé, and a respectable job. My brother may jeopardize that!" Mycroft persisted.

John fumed as he stared at the impassive face of the Government official. _How can he be so cold? _ "Do you have any idea what _friendship_ is, Mycroft? It means _not_ deserting someone! It means sticking together, even when things are at their worst! Sherlock is my friend! And even though I'm extremely upset with his actions, I will _still_ be there if he needs me! _And there is nothing you can do about it!_"

Mycroft smiled. "Then I guess I won't try!"

John froze as realization sunk in.

_Mycroft had tricked him! He never wanted John to stop being friends with Sherlock! He only said so to observe John's reaction! _

"You _git!_" John whispered angrily at Mycroft, who continued to smile benignly.

"A little thing called 'reverse psychology,' Doctor. It is a rather effective skill, especially when you are dealing with someone like my brother." Mycroft paused to glance at the flower beds again before walking back toward the house. "I recommend you to remember that in your dealings with Sherlock once we find him."

"And what the bloody hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" John asked Mycroft.

"You will see for yourself, Doctor, when the time comes." Mycroft replied. "You will have plenty of time to puzzle it out, when you have my brother under house-arrest for a month."

John smirked. "That bloody bastard…" He noticed Mycroft had stopped, mid-step, frowning in concentration. "Mycroft? Are you alright?"

Mycroft turned to John, his expression blank. "_The woman in the video…"_

John paused. "What are you talking about?"

"Ms. Morray died last year." Mycroft said, seemingly talking to himself.

"I think that has been established." John prompted. "So what are you talking about?"

Mycroft turned to John, his blue eyes wide with a new-found revelation. "I just recalled something that may help us locate my brother! Come with me, if you would."

Puzzled, John followed the government official back into the house and through the maze of rooms and hallways until they returned to the immaculate sitting room. Mycroft marched into the room without pause.

"_Sheridan!_ I need to ask you something!" Mycroft said without preamble.

Sheridan looked up from her chair. Everyone else was also seated, with the sole exception of Clarky, who still had the skull and was holding it aloft in the air in one hand.

From the looks of things, Clarky was probably trying to act out a scene from _Hamlet_. His efforts to recite Shakespeare quotes with his distinct southern accent must have been amusing, judging from the grins on his audience's faces.

"_Mr. Holmes!_ I'm in the middle of a performance here!" Clarky protested.

"I have no time to deal with Americans and their _perverse sense of humor_ just now, Dr. Clarkson! I deal with that on a daily basis from Mr. Douglas! My niece possesses some valuable information, which may be vital to this operation!"

Turning away from Clarky, Mycroft fixed his stern expression onto his niece. "Sheridan, I understand that your father entrusted you with sensitive information, and he told you not to divulge those secrets, but you are going to have to place your trust in John and me! It's imperative!"

Sheridan looked at Mycroft, eyes wide, but otherwise calm. She nodded.

"Good!" Mycroft said. "I need to contact Ms. Adler. I _must_ speak to her. Immediately!"

* * *

Irene Adler sighed impatiently as she looked over at the cell phone, which sat in front of her on the table. It had been several days since Sherlock had called her with news that he was finally closing in on Moriarty.

His last words still haunted her.

"_Irene, if you don't hear back from me by November 4__th__, you need to get to safety! Don't tell me where, either! Hopefully, I will contact you before then, to tell you Moriarty has been captured, but if I don't…"_

Irene noted the slight hitch in Sherlock's baritone voice, and she strove to distract him, somehow. "_You better call me back, Sherlock Holmes! I am not the type of woman who wants to be kept in suspense!"_

Sherlock remained silent for a few moments.

"_Sherlock?_" Irene had asked. "_Are you still there?_"

"_I'm here_." Sherlock whispered._ "Just remember what I said! If you don't hear back from me, then you know what to do!"_

Irene understood what he was telling her. If she didn't hear back from him sometime in the next five hours, then that meant that Sherlock had failed. And Moriarty had escaped.

"_You better call me back, Sherlock. Regardless of what happens!_" Irene ordered through the cell phone. It was a gift from Sherlock, and a very useful one at that. The phone was designed to block anyone from eavesdropping on her conversations, as well as block the signal that could be used to triangulate her location.

And for a woman with the number of enemies that she had, anonymity was everything!

Too bad she couldn't text from it, though!

"_Goodbye, Irene_." Sherlock said quickly, before hanging up on her.

His voice still troubled her. He sounded…_worried?_ _Confused? Resigned?_

Irene didn't even want to think about what _that_ could mean.

Frustrated, she glared the suitcase beside her chair, ready and waiting for her should the time come for her to make a hasty exit.

_She hated this._ Being the damsel in distress, relying on a _man_ to save her! She didn't enjoy sitting on the side-lines while someone else fought her battles.

However, due to her clumsiness, she didn't have a choice in the matter.

"_Damn it, Sherlock!_" Irene said aloud, glaring at the phone. "Call already!"

Almost as though he had heard her, the cell phone began ringing.

Joy and relief welled up in Irene as she picked up the phone and scrambled for the correct button. Finding it, she pressed it and brought the phone to her ear.

"_Sherlock!_ _It's about time!_ You _certainly_ know how to keep a lady waiting!" Irene smirked as she purred into the receiver. "Talk about cutting it close, darling! I do believe someone needs a _spanking_…"

"I am inclined to agree with your assessment, Ms. Adler, although I believe _my_ motivation will be vastly different from yours!"

Irene's eyes widened in surprise as she recognized the voice on the other line.

_Wrong Holmes!_

"_Mycroft?_" She squeaked out.

She remembered Sherlock's brother, of course. That overbearing man with that smug, condescending attitude and posh suits.

If he had his way, she would have definitely died and be buried somewhere in the desert!

_What did this mean? Did Mycroft find out his brother was alive? Were they in the same room together? Was Sherlock in custody? _

_Was Sherlock in handcuffs? _

_Hmmm. Interesting thought!_

"_Well_, this is certainly a surprise!" Irene said, reverting back to her sultry tones. She was rather relieved that this conversation was taking place over the phone and not face-to-face. "So, do you have Sherlock _sequestered_ somewhere? I do hope you aren't _too_ hard on him. But if you _insist_ on inflicting corporal punishment on Sherlock, I'll be _more than happy_ to assist you! I am _quite_ experienced in these matters!" Irene said teasingly.

"_Ms. Adler!_ Will you _desist_ with that unpleasant imagery?" Mycroft protested, exasperated.

"_Why?_ Upset that little brother is no longer a _virgin_, Mycroft? Although you should know that _I_ am not to blame for that!" Irene said, her eyes glowing in amusement.

_The man was such a prude, anyway!_

"Irene, this is John Watson." A new voice responded through the receiver. "Listen, we don't have much time, and we need your help!"

Irene cocked an eyebrow. "_John?_ What's going on? Where's Sherlock? Don't tell me _you_ want to spank him too!"

"Irene, _please_, listen to me! Sheri came to us earlier today." John said, his voice tense.

"_What!?" _Irene gasped, all flirtation gone. "Is Sheri alright? What about Sherlock?"

"Sheri is fine, Irene! But Sherlock is missing! Last night, he managed to stop the Slasher, but was wounded in the process. Moran has been captured, but Moriarty is still out there! He's in danger, Irene! _Please!_ We need your help!" John begged, his voice laced with distress.

Irene sighed. "I know what you are asking, John! But I don't know where he is! _I swear!_ I have been sitting around here, waiting for him to call me! He said that if I didn't hear from him in a few hours, by midnight tonight, then I needed to leave and go to a secure location!"

"Ms. Adler." Mycroft's voice spoke again. "John and I have you on speaker. Could you tell us _exactly_ what my brother told you when you spoke to him last?"

Irene paused.

_Could she really trust Mycroft? _

He _was_ the master manipulator. Only Moriarty was better than him!

But John was there too. She didn't know John that well, only what she heard about him from Sherlock.

_But Sherlock trusted him. _

Mycroft spoke again as Irene remained silent. "You need only name your price, Ms. Adler. I am willing to give you whatever you want! All I want is my brother to be safe."

Irene was shocked. The government official, who was so reluctant to give in to her demands when she had incriminating evidence against a member of the Royal Family, was willing to offer _anything_ to ensure his brother's safety.

_And here I thought the Holmes were not supposed to care about people!_

Irene huffed impatiently. "I don't want _money_, Mr. Holmes! I don't want _anything_ from you! So let's stop wasting time! Sherlock called me a few days ago, telling me he was closing in on Moriarty. I am assuming that you know about the incident with Charles Milverton…"

"I deduced it, Ms. Adler. I am also deducing that your little fall resulted in a significant injury, which prevented you from accompanying my brother to London."

Irene sighed. "So you _saw_ the tape? Funny, isn't it? I spent _hours_ on the dance floor with your brother, only to break my damned ankle while running across the lawn…"

"Are you alright?" John broke in, sounding concerned.

Irene smiled to herself. _Sherlock's right about John. He really does have a big heart! _"I'm fine, doctor. No need to be concerned about me. Although I still rely on crutches to get around. By the way, Sherlock was _most_ attentive to my needs! I received _wonderful_ care from him!"

She heard a groan of annoyance (likely Mycroft's) over the receiver. Smirking, she continued. "Before Sherlock departed to London, he asked me to ship a package to a locker located at Paddington Station. Box number 221. He should have the key." Irene said.

"A package?" John asked.

"Yes. Once he has found Moriarty's hiding place, he will go there. It contains his coat, scarf, and some other items. Sherlock said that when he finally meets Moriarty, he wants him to finally see who it was who beat him at his own game! Sociopath versus psychopath and all that! Personally, _my_ money is on Sherlock! If you get there, maybe you can wait till he shows up. If the locker's empty, then you missed him." Irene finished explaining.

"Thank you, Irene." John's voice breathed. He sounded grateful. "I won't forget this!"

"Ms. Adler." Mycroft spoke out. "You have done a great personal service without asking for any monetary benefit. Yet I still wish to aid you in some way. Please tell me where you are, and allow me to send some men to protect you."

Irene unconsciously shook her head. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, but I have already made the necessary arrangements. Just find your brother, _alive_, and we will call it even."

"Are you sure there is nothing we can do to help you?" John persisted compassionately.

"Just find Sherlock." Irene repeated. Without another word, Irene hung up the phone and stared out into the dark room. The phone fell from her limp hand and plummeted to the carpet.

There was no longer any reason to linger here. Irene needed to head to the airport, suitcase in hand, and flee to one of her various hideouts.

That was the sensible thing to do.

_So why did she want to jump on a plane and go to London, instead?_

Minutes passed. Irene continued to sit in the darkness, digesting the news she received.

Unexpectantly, a single tear traced down her right cheek. Irene frowned in annoyance and wiped it away, only for it to be replaced by another. And then another.

And she couldn't make them stop.

Sherlock had led Irene to believe that he would utilize the authorities to capture Moriarty. It was obvious to her now that he had lied to her.

He was going after Moriarty on his own. And that was why he sounded so…_different_ the last time he called. He was telling her good-bye.

_Because he wasn't going to come back._

Inside the dark room, alone and closed off, Irene Adler, dominatrix and former blackmailer, cried bitter tears as she realized, only now, that she had crossed the one line she never wanted to cross. Her life was such that she always had to close herself off, to not feel pain.

And yet Sherlock Holmes, that arrogant, pompous man, had somehow gotten past the barriers of her heart.

_And she had let him._

She wished she had let him know how she felt about him.

And now it was too late.

She would never see Sherlock Holmes again.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Irene is back!

_What?_ Did you think I forgot _her?_ And my sincere congratulations to **chaoticmom**, who figured out Irene was the mysterious woman who broke into Charles Milverton's mansion back in Chapter 9!

So, did you like the way Irene messed with Mycroft? Talk about Mycroft's worse nightmare! With him to be so protective of Sherlock, only to find out his baby brother is in a (possible) romantic entanglement with a known criminal? And the way that Irene teased Mycroft about "spanking" Sherlock? LOL!

So, did you all like the exchange, or did I go too far with messing with Mycroft's mind? Please let me know, as I plan for more bad things to happen to Mycroft, but if I am being too mean to him, I'll stop!

Also, the Yarders got to meet Abby! Of course, _Clarky_ was accepting of it! Knowing him, he probably spoke to skulls all the time back in Knoxville. And the rest of the Yarders seemed alright with it, for now!

I hope I did an adequate job of explaining Dani's mental gift (and, by extension, Moriarty's). In my story, both of them have inherited an ability to instinctively know what is important to a particular person and to feel what they were feeling.

If you were able to look at someone and know instinctively what was important to them, and what they were feeling at that particular moment, what would you do with that gift?

For Dani, she used it to enhance her computer hacking abilities. For Moriarty, he uses it to play his twisted mind games on others.

To an extent, Sheridan has this ability as well, but it seems to conflict with her ability to deduce, and she is able to turn it off, most of the time. It will be interesting to see how she develops, when she gets older.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own "Sherlock." Nor do I own the idea of spanking Sherlock, as I have seen it featured in several stories in Fan Fiction!

However, if I _did_ own Sherlock, we would probably be treated to _this..._

**Peaceful Defender**-Sherlock? What are you _doing!?_

**Sherlock Holmes**-I am contemplating something.

**Peaceful Defender**-Yes, but you are in my house. And in the _nude! _ (Leans forward to get a better look).

**Sherlock Holmes**-Is that a problem?

**Peaceful Defender-**No, no! No problem! (takes out cell phone and starts taking pictures). _No problem at all!_

**Sherlock Holmes** (scowls) _Why_ are you taking pictures of me?

**Peaceful Defender-**Are you _really_ asking me that!? _Woo-hoo!_ Do you know how many people would _kill_ to see this!? And on my _birthday_, too! (Starts singing) _Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me!_

**Sherlock Holmes**(frowns)-_Stop that! _

**Peaceful Defender **(smiling happily)-Not that I am complaining or anything, but why are you going around _naked?_

**Sherlock Holmes**-I have glanced over the last few chapters, and I am dismayed that so many people think me incapable of fathering children, so I think visual evidence is required!

**Peaceful Defender**-_Oh!_ Well, Sherlock, I rather doubt that people think you are _physically_ incapable of fathering a child! I think the surprise comes from you _raising_ a child! There is a big difference, you know! But you can stay the way you are! It doesn't bother me! Just don't go around London like that!

**Sherlock Holmes**-Why not?

**Peaceful Defender**-_Well_...let's just say you are spotted! Can you imagine what the witnesses will say? "Oh, yes, Officer! I saw him, but I can't tell you much, because he had such a nice arse that I really wasn't looking at anything else!" And can you imagine if they called in a _sketch_ _artist_ to draw your bum?

**Sherlock Holmes**-That is rather _disturbing..._

**Peaceful Defender**-I can see it during a press conference now! "We are asking the public's help in identifying a suspect! Right now, all we know is that the suspect has a nice arse!"

**Sherlock Holmes **(irritated)-Yes, I think we are _all_ in agreement that I have a nice arse!

**Peaceful Defender**-Or what if they caught you, and they decided to do a _line-up? _For_ identification?! "_Gentlemen, trousers down! Faces to the wall! Now, ladies, take your time! Do you see that nice arse in front of you?"

**Sherlock Holmes** (sighs)-I'll go find some clothes. Or a sheet!

**Peaceful Defender**-_NO! _ I mean, I have no objection to you being naked! I rather doubt my readers do either! But we just don't want you parading around London! Stay here! You look real..._nice!_

**Sherlock Holmes** (studying Peaceful Defender critically)-Your eyes are dilated, and your breathing is rapid. You have also drank Merlot as part of your birthday celebration, and you are experiencing loss of self-control and lust.

**Peaceful Defender**-_Yes I am! _I'm not denying it either! I just wish you didn't wear that sheet in a "Scandal in Bohemian!" I personally think that we, the fans, were cheated out of so much!

**Sherlock Holmes**-But the longer you gaze at my physique, the less likely you are to post the next chapter.

**Peaceful Defender** (sighs in defeat)-_Oh, fine!_ You go ahead and get dressed, and I'll prepare the next chapter, as soon as I get a review! Who knows, maybe I'll get more than one, because it is my birthday!

**Sherlock Holmes**-And your birthday gift to yourself is seeing me _naked?_

**Peaceful Defender**-I just wish everyone else could see you naked! It might hold us over until Series 3 comes on!


	24. Chapter 23

**Warning:** Some cursing, some slight violence, and a character who is OOC.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Three: Bravery**

"To exact revenge for yourself or your friends is not only a right, it's an absolute duty." Stieg Larsson

* * *

John sighed after Ms. Adler hung up on them. "Well, that wasn't much, but it's a start!"

Mycroft nodded. "I will send men to Paddington Station immediately." He nodded to Not-Anthea, who nodded back in acknowledgement and quietly left the room to convey Mycroft's orders to the proper channels.

"How soon can your people get there?" John asked.

"In less than three minutes. I have several of my men on stand-by back at London, just in case. If Sherlock hasn't arrived there already, then they shall remain there until he reveals himself, in which case he will be placed into protective custody."

John looked up, annoyed. "Mycroft, I was _joking_ earlier about locking Sherlock up! There's no need to break out the tranquilizer darts and Tasers!"

Mycroft stared at John critically. "You have been watching too many spy movies, John! My men will simply go up to him and tell him I request his presence."

"And you think he is just going to _obey_ your summons?" John asked sarcastically.

"I rather doubt he will make a scene and draw some unnecessary attention to himself. Not unless he wants to announce to the world and Moriarty that he is still alive. Don't be too concerned. My men will treat Sherlock with dignity and respect."

"Says the man who can make people disappear with a wave of a hand and kidnaps people off the street just to bribe them to keep tabs on his brother." John huffed, the corners of his mouth twitching a little. "Will they bring him here, if they find him?"

"No. You and I will go to him. If Inspector Hopkins and Sergeant Donovan are correct, then my brother has sustained injuries that probably have not been treated by a licensed medical professional." Mycroft explained, glancing down at his watch. "We can't take him to a hospital of course. Not without word getting out. But Sherlock would allow _you_ to treat him."

John nodded, bemused. "So I'm only allowed to come because of my medical license? Wonderful to know!"

"That and the fact that you are the person he would trust above all others." Mycroft observed John passively.

John snorted. "I'm just glad we called Irene without the others around! Can you _imagine _if they heard?"

"If by that enigmatic statement, I assume you mean Ms. Adler's reference to using corporal punishment on Sherlock, then yes, I am in complete agreement with you." Mycroft said, looking slightly amused. "It seems like there is a lot about my brother and his life that I didn't know about before tonight!"

John grinned. "You and me both, Mycroft. I'm just glad _Anderson_ didn't hear Irene!"

Mycroft nodded, yet seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. "I never thought he would go this far."

"What? You mean Sherlock being intimate with a member of the opposite sex?"

Mycroft looked at John with a bored expression on his face. "If you would desist with the perverted overtones and innuendos, Doctor, then you would know what I am referring to!"

John sighed. "Sorry, Mycroft. What were you saying about Sherlock again?"

Mycroft absently tapped the end of his umbrella on the floor. "I never thought my brother would get to the point where he cared enough about people that he is taking the risks necessary to ensure your safety. It has been so long since he has actually _felt_ for people. Besides faking his suicide, he also managed to save Ms. Adler, and without my knowledge as well."

John looked at Mycroft quizzically. "Does that bother you?"

Mycroft nodded unconsciously. "It does. For several reasons. One of which is because I worry that the motives behind his actions may not be fully appreciated by others." Mycroft looked significantly at John.

John sighed. "You still think that I am going to be angry with Sherlock, don't you?"

"Anger is understandable, John. What I am concerned about is for Sherlock to be…"

"Rejected? Abandoned?" John prompted.

Mycroft looked at John, an unreadable expression on his face. "Do you realize how long it has been since _anyone_ has gotten close to my brother?"

"_Mycroft._" John said, looking at the government official. "For the last time, I am _not _going to give up on mine and Sherlock's friendship! I don't know who these so-called friends were in the past, or what they did, but they obviously couldn't have been great friends, because the idea of friendship is that you stick together, no matter what! And while I still think that Sherlock is an utter git, I _do_ believe that he did what he thought he had to do."

Mycroft regarded John with a hint of respect. "I am relieved that you are so…_understanding_, John."

John shrugged in acknowledgment. Now that he had time to reflect, he realized his anger at Sherlock earlier had dissipated from rage to mere exasperation.

_Because he did understand._

Sherlock, in his own way, was doing what he thought was right. He wasn't trying to show off his brilliance or leave anyone behind because he didn't care about them.

He left because he _did_ care.

John frowned as he considered the shape that they would find Sherlock. If they were fortunate, then they would find Sherlock, angered and petulant but very much _alive_, complaining loudly about his brother's interference into his plans and probably only having superficial injuries that can be easily treated.

_And if they were not fortunate…_

"Sir?" Not-Anthea said quietly, opening the door and looking subdued. "I just received word from the men."

Mycroft looked at her and then looked down. John heard it in her tone as well, and slumped wearily into his seat.

_They were too late._

* * *

Claudette Bruhl did not like London.

It was a bad place, with bad people, like that man who kidnapped her and her brother Max a year and a half ago. Her brother got really sick, and he was in the hospital for months before he was well enough to come home. She was only six at the time, but the memories were still fresh in her mind.

She still remembered the cold, dark room. The anguish she felt when her brother fell asleep and won't wake up. She recalled the kidnapper, with those black eyes and that cold voice that haunted Claudette, even in her dreams. She remembered her scream of terror when the man-who-looked-like-the-kidnapper-but-wasn't came running in with the police.

Claudette returned home a changed, traumatized child. She slept with a nightlight, because the dark scared her. She _hated_ candy, because candy is what made her and her brother sick.

To make matters worse, she found out that she had, mistakenly, killed a man.

It was that stupid Simone Denton at school! Claudette hated Simone, because Simone was taller, and liked to tease other kids. She and her friends teased Claudette constantly after the incident, because Claudette was always scared. They called her names and pulled her hair and called her a baby and she cried and _oh she really hated them_!

Daddy found out and took her out of the school, but not before Claudette learned the truth. Simone told her that when Claudette, in her terror, had screamed at the man-who-looked-like-the-kidnapper-but-wasn't, the police thought _he_ was the kidnapper, and arrested him, and he was so sad about it that he jumped off a building.

Simone laughed and said that Claudette caused the man to die, that she was a killer and would go to the place where the Devil takes bad kids.

Claudette _really_ hated Simone Denton!

Claudette sighed impatiently and flipped through the channels of the television. No cartoons or Disney movies on. Just the news and some grown-up shows. In short, nothing interesting.

Claudette was eight now. This was her first trip back to London since her kidnapping. She hadn't really wanted to come, but she begged Daddy to let her. In truth, she was tired of being afraid. And Daddy was away from home so much, and she wanted to spend time with him and not be home. She also did it so she could spend Halloween in a hotel and not see kids her age walk to houses and receive candy from strangers, something she couldn't do yet.

But Claudette wasn't a little girl anymore! Maybe she wasn't a big girl, but she certainly wasn't a _baby!_

And she would prove it to herself.

Daddy didn't want her to come, of course. He was afraid of what could happen. And her brother steadfastly refused to come. But in the end, Claudette prevailed, and she got to come to London, hoping that she could finally face her fears and be brave.

And she _was_ brave. _Really! _

She just wished Michael, the man who Daddy hired to stay with her when he was away, would come back from his smoking break soon.

* * *

Michael Clifford took another long drag from his cigarette, sighing with relief at the familiar acidic taste of tobacco filled his lungs. He knew smoking was bad for him, and he tried to quit several times in the past, but never was able to do it. Not even with those damn nicotine patches and gum.

_Another five minutes, then I'll go back to babysitting again._ Michael thought disparagingly. He was a trained professional, after all, and he protected his clients from multiple threats. Hostile labor unions. Terrorists. Yakuza.

But never, in his entire career, had he been asked to protect a child from imaginary monsters!

Had Ambassador Bruhl not paid him such a generous fee, he _never_ would have done it!

The little girl wasn't bad, though. She was just so damned _fidgety_ all the time! Jumping at the smallest sound! Insisting on sleeping with the lamp on! It was just so _annoying!_

Suddenly, without warning, strong arms grabbed Clifford from behind, instantly pinning his arms and knocking the cigarette out of his hands. Shocked, Clifford twisted violently, preparing to fight, when a damp cloth covered his nose and mouth. A prevailing, cloy-like scent enveloped his senses, and Clifford's eyes rolled into the back of his head.

His world abruptly went black.

* * *

Harper watched as the man he had just chloroformed slumped to the ground, his front gold teeth gleaming as he grinned.

_Stupid prat!_ The chloroform should keep him out for a few minutes at least.

_More than enough time to grab that brat and take her back to the boss._

Whistling happily, Harper put the rag and bottle of chloroform back into his coat pocket. He had a feeling he would need it later, as the girl would likely not come quietly.

But he couldn't help being happy. Everything was going so well.

Harper was aware that Moran, the boss's second-in-command, was captured earlier that day. Not only that, but he also failed in his mission to capture that doctor.

_Stupid bastard!_ Always making it a point to clean his gun whenever he was around, shouting out orders as if he was still in the fucking Army!

And yet he couldn't take out a doctor with a limp! _How pathetic!_

The boss needed a new right-hand man. And tonight, Harper would make a case for himself.

Stooping down, Harper grabbed the unconscious man from underneath his arms and laboriously dragged him toward a row of trash bins. After he finished hiding the unconscious body guard, he causally retrieved the hotel slide card from the man's pocket.

* * *

A few minutes later, Harper was walking up the steps in the emergency fire escape, wearing the body guard's heavy tan coat. The exertion and the heat were starting to tire him.

_Of course, the good ambassador just had to pick the top floor! _

In a seven storied building, of course!

But everything was going as planned. Who cared if he had to walk a few flights of stairs?

In a few minutes, his associate, who was stationed in the basement, would release some smoke bombs near the venting system, and then set off the fire alarm. In the panic that followed, no one would notice that the Bruhl girl was carried out by a stranger.

Harper couldn't help but smile. He had a good idea what the boss had in mind for the girl. But he didn't care. She would just grow up to be one of those little rich bitches who whined whenever they didn't get their way and constantly waived their wealth in the faces of blokes like him and treated them like scum.

Why _should_ he care?

_Either way, he was getting paid!_

Harper's mind shifted back to the present as he finally made it up another flight of stairs to the sixth floor landing.

He could only hope that stupid Yarder wouldn't foil things up downstairs. Timing was everything.

He paused outside the door leading to the seventh floor. Any moment now, the fire alarm would go off, and the hotel would be plunged into chaos, leaving him with the opportunity to grab the kid and leave before anyone knew he was there.

He waited tensely for a few moments, occasionally glancing at his watch and huffing impatiently. _Dammit!_ Why didn't the stupid Yarder hurry up already? The longer they took, the more likely they would get caught!

That was why Harper didn't see the shadowy figure sneak up behind him.

_Until it was too late._

* * *

Harper's first warning was the cold hand that closed around his throat, cutting off any sounds he would have made otherwise.

_What the bloody hell?!_

His assailant wrapped his other arm around him, pinning his right arm. Frantic, Harper started to struggle. The man applied more pressure to Harper's throat, and a wave of dizziness gripped him.

"Applying the right amount of force on certain pressure points on the human body will make a person lose consciousness. Something I learned during my travels." Said a cold voice close to his ear. "Mostly on how to inflict pain without causing permanent damage."

Harper gagged. Spots danced around his vision, and his knees became as water. He felt himself being lowered to the ground as he was rapidly losing the battle to stay awake.

"Kidnapping children and planning to point a gun at an elderly lady? How utterly _pathetic_! That's why you will never amount to anything, Harper! You are afraid to go against anyone unless they are weaker than you! I promise you, you _will_ pay for that!" The voice said angrily.

Harper felt his mouth fall open just as he blacked out.

_How did the man know about that?_

* * *

The loud blaring broke Claudette out of her musings.

_The fire alarm! _

_The hotel is on fire!_

Claudette froze in the middle of the room, paralyzed into immobility.

_Where was Michael? Why wasn't he here? Where was Daddy? _

_If she stayed here, she would burn up! _

_But if she left on her own, a bad person could snatch her away, just like they did before!_

The fire alarm continued, causing Claudette to cover her ears with her hands. Her breathing came in ragged gasps.

_This could be a trick! The bad men could be waiting outside, waiting to grab her! _

_She couldn't leave!_

In the hallway outside, she heard muffled voices. People shouting, the sounds of footsteps, people running.

And, so faint it was almost undetectable, Claudette could smell smoke…

Sobbing loudly, Claudette huddled in a corner, closing her eyes and continued to hold her hands to her ears. _No one was coming to get her! Daddy was at that meeting, and Michael wasn't here and she was alone and frightened._

_Was Simone right? Am I going to the place where all the bad children go?_

Suddenly, the door to the hotel suite flew open.

* * *

Sherlock hesitated as he finally saw the little girl huddled miserably in the corner of the luxurious hotel bedroom.

Just eighteen months ago, this same little girl had screamed at the mere sight of him.

He showed no reaction at the time, but he couldn't help feeling slightly distressed that _he _was the reason the young girl was so frightened.

Even if he _was_ a freak and a sociopath and had done many terrible things in his life, he would _never, ever_, willingly inflict such damage on a child!

The girl didn't scream _this_ time, at least. But she looked like she was in the middle of a panic attack, her breath coming in rapid hitches, and his abrupt entry had provided her a momentary distraction.

Once he had captured Harper, he dragged the unconscious man back down the stairs, dubiously arguing with himself about the ethics of throwing the man out the window, just to save himself the trouble.

_Harper was the one assigned to go after Mrs. Hudson, after all…_

But still, the Yard would eventually need to question him, and they could hardly do that if Sherlock threw him off a seven storied building.

_Even if it was deserved!_

In the hotel basement, Sherlock found Harper's partner, who was assigned to kill Lestrade that horrible day as well. Unfortunately, the man saw his face, which required Sherlock to be, shall we say, _less gentle_ than he had been with Harper.

Eventually, he too was incapacitated, and, along with his co-conspirator, was drug outside into the alley, where the two brothers, Kenneth and Lawrence, were waiting.

Unfortunately, the turncoat Yarder had already set off the smoke bombs, setting off the hotel fire alarm and prompting a full scale evacuation of the hotel.

He could have waited for the London Fire Brigade to show up, of course. But Moriarty was the type of person who may have had a confederate working there, too.

Perhaps he was being overly cautious, but Sherlock wasn't willing to take that chance.

But if he went to rescue Claudette Burhl, then he risked putting her through additional mental anguish by making the girl relive her nightmare over again.

He wouldn't dare drug her, of course. Just thinking about it made him physically ill.

It would almost be like asking him to drug Sheri.

That was why, when he had found the bottle of chloroform in Harper's pocket, he was so furious with the would-be kidnapper that he seriously considered dragging him up the stairs again, just to throw him out the highest window he could find.

But Sherlock managed to step back and look at the situation logically. His first priority was saving Claudette Burhl from whatever twisted plan Moriarty had in store for her, not to take out his vengeance on Moriarty's henchmen. He had to get her out of the hotel, and to someone that he _knew_ was not working for Moriarty.

_If I was John, and I was in this situation, what would I do?_

Not that anyone would _ever _consider John to be someone to kidnap and torture children, of course.

That was the brilliance of Moriarty's plan. Sherlock, being a sociopath, was notorious for being calculating and unfeeling.

The Yarders, even _Lestrade_, were not hard to convince…

_Irrelevant! I don't care what the Yard thinks about me!_

But back to the problem at hand_. How do I get a child out of a burning building when the mere sight of my face is bound to make her hysterical?_

Had it been Sheridan, all he would have to do was come in and tell her to go with him, and she would obey without question.

But that would not work in this situation, so he had to improvise.

_He could only hope that this crazy scheme worked._

* * *

"Ms. Bruhl?" Sherlock said, his voice sounding muffled. He winced slightly at the pain that shot out from his throat.

_Great, it was probably becoming infected! _

Swallowing a little in hopes of clearing his throat, Sherlock tried again. Tentatively, he reached out, as though towards a stray dog who could bolt at any moment. "Come on. The building is on fire. I am here to help you."

Claudette looked up at him from her huddled position. Sherlock could deduce instantly that the last year and a half had not been particularly kind to this child. She was trembling from head to toe, and her skin was covered with a thin layer of sweat despite the coolness of the room. Her eyes were red rimmed and tears continued to stream down her face.

There were other factors, too, that showed that the girl was still suffering from the terror Moriarty inflicted on her. Her skin was paler, from staying indoors more often than a normal child would, and her nails showed that she constantly bit them when she was nervous, a habit that she did not have a year and a half ago.

Sherlock kneeled down on his knees, careful not to get too near Claudette, in case he should startle her. The majority of his face was hidden by the collar of the jacket that he "borrowed" at the fire station a few blocks away, as well as the matching helmet. He also wore a handkerchief tied around the bottom half of his face.

Claudette watched him, her face torn between desire to escape and caution. Sherlock tried to sound comforting as he held out his hand. "The building is on fire." He repeated. "It's not safe for you here. We need to get you out of here!"

Claudette hesitantly stood up, wiping her face with her left sleeve. "Are you a fireman?"

Sherlock nodded, working to keep his voice as soft as possible. "Do you hear the alarm? Can't you smell the smoke? Why else would I be here?"

Claudette looked hard at the man's eyes, as they were the only really visible thing on the man's face. They were not black, like that mean man who got her last year. They were funny looking, blue and green and grey and silver, all at once.

The man seemed nice, though. And he _was_ a fireman.

But she was scared, because the alarm was sounding and she could smell smoke and Michael hadn't come to get her and _she wanted Daddy!_

But didn't her teachers and her parents say that firemen and policemen were the good guys?

_Surely they were good here, even in London._

The sound of running footsteps and alarmed shouts from terrified guests shook them out of their thoughts. The man held out both of his arms. "I am not here to hurt you, Claudette! But you need to come with me now!" The man's voice was soft and soothing, and there was something about him that was familiar.

Claudette started to come towards, then suddenly flinched back.

She was too afraid to go with this man.

Even if he _was_ a fireman!

Sherlock resisted the urge to bark out an order to the frightened girl. He never was good with children, and he never had been. They were loud and insistent and always trying to get their way.

Well, _Sheridan_ wasn't like that. But then, Sheridan was _his _child and thus was bound to be more intelligent than her peers.

But if Sherlock was honest with himself, he would admit that the only reason he experienced any success with Sheridan was because he raised her the way that he imagined that John would raise her.

_John…._

_That's it!_

Hit with a moment of inspiration, Sherlock reached around his neck until he found the chain with John's dog tags on them.

Before he had left London, almost eighteen months ago, he had been by the flat at 221 B Baker Street. As he knew the chances of him coming back were extremely remote, he wished to look around one last time, to preserve the flat in his memory palace.

In a moment of sentiment (or stupidity, if Mycroft had known about it), he had found John's army tags, and decided to take them with him.

He told himself that it was to ensure that if he did survive, he would be forced to return the dog tags to John, so that he wouldn't be able to get out of telling him the truth.

_But if he was really honest with himself, it was because he wanted something of John's. Something to remind him of what he was fighting for..._

Triumphantly, he tried to raise it over his head, only to find he couldn't get the chain off over the fireman's helmet.

Muttering under his breath, Sherlock unhooked his helmet (carefully keeping the collar of the jacket around his face) and pulled it off in order to free the dog tags. Then he hastily put the helmet back on.

Claudette looked at the man curiously. She still couldn't see what he looked like, or why he was so anxious to take his necklace off, but so far, he hadn't done anything that seemed threatening in any way.

His helmet firmly back in place, Sherlock turned around to face the child. Tentatively, he held up the chain, allowing her to see the dog tags as they swayed back and forth, almost in a parody of a magician hypnotizing an audience member.

"Do you see this?" Sherlock asked.

Claudette nodded mutely.

Sherlock took a deep breath before continuing.

_Didn't Google say something about how children liked to hear stories, and learned lessons from them? _

_He could only hope this worked!_

"This is a _very_ special necklace! It belongs to a very brave man! A doctor, who went out into battle to save people before he got hurt! Then he came back to England and began working with the Yard to save people here!"

Claudette listened intently. Sherlock saw that she was paying attention and continued with his story.

"This man is so brave, in fact, that some of his bravery could not be contained any longer, so some of it was transferred to the army necklace that he wore around his neck. That way, anyone who wears this necklace becomes brave too, just like him. I borrowed it, so now I am brave! So if you wear it, then you will be brave enough to come with me until we get downstairs and find your father."

Even as he spoke to Claudette, Sherlock was mentally berating himself.

This is _so _stupid!

Although he was at a loss of how to get the girl to trust him, and admittedly couldn't come up with any better options, he still couldn't believe that he stooped to this!

_Next thing you know, I'll be telling her __ghosts__ exists!_

Claudette, however, seemed oddly fascinated by the dog tags. "So if I put it on, I won't be afraid anymore?"

_Bloody hell! What would John say in this instance?_

"No." Sherlock admitted. "You will still be afraid. But being brave means facing your fears! Unless you have fear, you can't be brave!"

For the first time since entering the room, Sherlock saw determination in Claudette's eyes, which were previously glazed over in terror.

"What is the man's name?" Claudette whispered.

Behind the clothe covering his face, Sherlock smiled gently. "John. His name is John Watson. "

Claudette looked at the dog tags again, considering her options. "What will you do if I don't go with you?"

Sherlock looked at the girl for a moment, then simply sat down on the floor, still far enough away so that he didn't make the child too jumpy. "Then I'll stay too!"

"What if the building burns down?" Claudette persisted.

Sherlock shrugged, looking deceptively casual. "I'm not leaving you here alone. But I won't force you to go with me either."

Claudette looked stunned. "You will stay? Even if you get burnt up too?"

Sherlock nodded. "If you don't want to come, then I'll stay here with you."

_Oh, how he loathed himself at this point!_

He made a promise to return to his daughter, but hadn't kept it. So what right did he have to make a promise to another child?

Claudette began wringing her hands together, still undecided. "Why would you stay? Don't you have a family? Kids?"

"I have a daughter who is about your age." Sherlock admitted quietly, then coughed against the discomfort in his throat. "If she were in your place, I would hope someone was there for her."

Claudette nodded mutely. She had stopped crying, but tear tracks still glistened on her cheeks, and her brown eyes were tinged in red. Underneath it all was perpetual dark circles, testifying to the fact that she still had trouble sleeping. That she was plagued by nightmares.

_Moriarty will pay for invoking terror on this child, just as he had with Sheridan._ Sherlock vowed to himself. _I will see to it personally._

Sherlock spoke again and somehow managed to keep his voice steady. "I _know_ you are a brave girl, Claudette. I am certain you can do this."

For a moment, they sat in silence. The dog tags still hung in Sherlock's outstretched hand. An offering of hope. A lifeline to safety. But only if the girl was brave enough to take it.

Claudette looked at the dog tags for a long time. She had seen these things before. Around the necks of men in uniforms. Daddy had always treated these men with respect. As if they were heroes. As though they were brave.

She could be brave, too.

_Now was her chance to prove it._

* * *

"Move along, people! Clear the streets for the LFB!" Inspector Gregson yelled at the top of his lungs. "Come one, people, _move it!"_

The scene was one of utter mayhem. People were running out of the hotel exits and were milling around in the streets, unsure as to where they needed to go. Thick smoke was seen to issue from various floors of the building, but so far, no one could find the source of the fire.

People in business suits, dining gowns, workout sweats, hotel uniforms, cooking aprons, and even silk bedroom attire covered by warm dressing gowns mingled freely with one another. In situations like this, class and wealth were forgotten as people continued to mill around and ask each other what was going on.

And amongst the standing crowd, weaving in and out, were various members of the emergency rescue squad, the London Fire Brigade, and several members of the London Metropolitan Police Force, who were sent to keep order.

"_Gregson!_" A voice called out.

Detective Inspector Gregson scanned the area and was relieved to see that the person calling him was Detective Inspector Dimmock, his youthful feature lined with worry as he weaved through the crowds until he worked his way to Gregson.

For a brief moment, Gregson feared that his name was being called by one of those social pariahs that hid behind the title of "journalist." When they were not questioning him about what was going on in the Slasher case, they would grill him as to why he had yet to solve the double murder of the esteemed Mr. Felix Caldwell and his wife, Madeline, which occurred some months ago and was still making headlines as one of the many "unsolved" crimes in London and just another example as to how far London had fallen in the war against crime.

Gregson decided that the next journalist he saw would end up behind bars.

"Gregson! What's happening? I heard something about a fire here! No one knows what is going on!" Dimmock said, once he got close enough to have himself heard over the crowds.

"Story of my life, Dimmock! No one knows anything!" Gregson said irritably. "Smoke seems to be coming from every floor, but no one knows where the fire is!"

"That's because there is no fire."

Dimmock and Gregson turned to the declarant. "What do you mean, there is no fire?!" Gregson questioned, looking somewhat irritated.

The speaker was a man. His black jacket, trimmed in gold and complete with matching fire-resistant trousers and helmet, showed that he was a member of the LFB. His facial features were mostly obscured by a piece of dark clothe that covered the lower half of his face.

The firefighter, whoever he was, was carefully cradling a young girl in his arms. The girl in question hung onto the firefighter as though he was a piece of wreckage in the middle of the ocean. She looked petrified, and at the same time doing her best to remain calm.

"I mean there is no fire." The man affirmed calmly. "Someone put several canisters of smoke bombs into the hotel's main ventilation. That is why no one can find out where the blaze is originating from!"

"Are you sure?" Gregson asked.

"_Yes!_" The man repeated, his voice rough. Turning to Dimmock, he said, "Dimmock, I need you to watch over this child! Don't let her out of your sight, and don't hand her over to _anyone_, at all, until her father, Rufus Bruhl, gets here! Can you do that?"

"_Rufus Bruhl_, the American ambassador?" Gregson croaked out.

The firefighter stared at Gregson and seemed to be on the verge of saying something to him, but apparently thought better of it.

"_Wait!"_ The little girl cried out. "Don't go!" On impulse, she wrapped her arms around the firefighter's neck again.

Dimmock saw the look of shock (or was it pain) that flashed through the man's gray eyes before he gently bent down so that the girl could stand on the ground. Claudette loosened her hold but still kept her hands around her rescuer's neck, barely touching the stands of black curls that managed to escape underneath his helmet. The man gently disengaged from her hold but remained in a crouching position so that he could be face to face with the child.

"Claudette, I have to go! Inspector Dimmock here will stay with you until your father comes to get you! But until then, stay with him, no matter what!" The firefighter said, his voice still muffled from the clothe covering the lower half of his face.

Claudette nodded forlornly, her face still streaked with tears.

The firefighter suddenly burst into a fit of coughing. He cleared his throat, then turned back to the girl. "Can you be brave until your father comes for you? Can you stay with Inspector Dimmock and protect him?"

Dimmock smiled briefly as the girl nodded again.

The moment was interrupted by a blinding flash of light.

"_Bloody hell!_ You _damned_ vultures!" Gregson yelled, chasing after the newspaper man, who scurried away after taking his picture.

The firefighter sighed with visible annoyance before gently guiding Claudette towards Dimmock, "Take care of her, and don't let _anyone_ take her from you, not even another member of the Met, until Ambassador Bruhl comes for her!"

"But…but _why?"_ Dimmock asked. He knew some of the firemen, of course. This guy must know him, even though Dimmock couldn't see who he was.

"I have no time to explain! _Just do it!_" The man said tersely. The look in his grayish eyes brokered no argument.

Dimmock nodded mutely.

" But what if Daddy doesn't come?" Claudette asked nervously, looking around at the crowd of people with trepidation.

The firefighter coughed once, then looked back down at the girl, his voice soft. "He's your father, Claudette. Fathers love their daughters, and I know he won't stop until he knows you are safe. You can believe that. He'll come for you."

And with that, the mysterious fireman disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm not very happy with this chapter. As much as I tried to make Sherlock the crazy sociopath we know and love, I just couldn't do it! I had to take into account that he has been raising his own daughter for the past year. If John was able to change Sherlock, I imagine that having a daughter would as well.

Now, we really don't know how Sherlock interacts with kids. I mean, we see him talk to two little girls briefly in "Scandal in Belgravia" and then we see Claudette scream at him in the "Reichenbach Fall" (which was completely _not_ his fault), so we really don't know if he will be good with kids or not.

As I have borrowed (shamelessly) from the great Sir Author Conan Doyle ("The Case of the Dying Detective," "The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton"), I am also borrowing some canon from the original Sherlock Holmes as well. And as anti-social as he was, he had a fondness for the children, namely the Irregulars. So I imagine that _our_ Sherlock, if he found that the child was not "dull," would probably get along well with him or her, if he gave half an effort.

The next chapter coming up with have significantly more fluff, as two more people find out about Sherlock and Sheridan. Also, we have learned who the sniper was for John (Moran) and Mrs. Hudson (Harper), but we have yet to learn the identity of the sniper assigned to take out Lestrade. Is _his_ life still in danger?

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock. Neither am I responsible for my friends' antics last night! Why they insist on taking me out for a night on the town is something I'll never understand!

Remind me not to post bail for them anymore!

**Peaceful Defender**-Ok, I need to know! Which OC is more likeable? Chase Douglas, or Clarky?

**OC Chase Douglas**-Oh, that's easy! It's _me! _ I was the one, along with my Fan Fiction group, who released the St. Bart's tape to the world! And I got arrested for singing "God Save the Queen!" I'm a YouTube celebrity!

**OC Clarky**-Yeah, well, I got a cute girlfriend! And I got to work with Lucky!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Who's _Lucky?_

**OC Clarky**-His real name is Sherlock Holmes.

**OC Chase Douglas**-Really!? You worked with the world's only consulting detective!? _Sweet! _ Of course, _I_ get to work with the great DMP!

**OC Clarky**-_DMP?_

**OC Chase Douglas**-The Demented Mary Poppins!

**OC Clarky**-You work with Julie Andrews?

**OC Chase Douglas**-NO! I am talking about the _legend! _ The great Mycroft Holmes!

**OC Clarky**-Oh, yeah! Lucky's super-creepy British Government brother with weapons hidden in his umbrella! _Okay..._I say you definitely are the _crazier_ of the two of us, so congradulations!

**OC Chase Douglas**-So that makes me more popular? _Cool! _ (Starts singing) _"I'm so excited! And I just can't hide it! I'm about to lose control, and I think I like it!"_

**OC Clarky**-_Okay? _ Well, what do you do for Lucky's brother?

**OC Chase Douglas**-I hack into criminal's personal computers!

**OC Clarky**-Oh! Well, I helped Lucky catch some criminals in Tennessee! And I helped him with some of his experiments! At the Body Farm!

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Really?! _ Cool! I'll admit your job is more exciting than mine. Still, I'm better looking than you!

**OC Clarky**-I doubt that, kid! Many people say I look like Gwaine from the BBC series "Merlin!"

**OC Chase Douglas** (tears of his shirt and starts dancing) _"I'm too sexy for my shirt! Too sexy for my shirt! So sexy, it hurts!"_

**Peaceful Defender** (groans)-Ok, who gave him coffee?!

**OC Clarky** (raises hand sheepishly)-_Me?_

**Peaceful Defender**-_Clarky! _ You are never, _ever_, allowed to give Chase coffee, under _any_ circumstance! _Period!_

**OC Clarky**-_Hey!_ No one bothered to tell me that I been hanging out with a dead man for four months! How am I supposed to know this stuff if no one tells me!?

**Peaceful Defender**-You know what? I can't decide which of you two I like better! I mean, we got Chase, who is a genius with computers, seems to be the only person alive who can't find any fault with the DMP, and yet has a rather adverse reaction to coffee by breaking out into song for hours on end!

**OC Chase Douglas** (oblivious to the fact that he is the topic of conversation as he continues to dance around topless)-"_I'm sexy and I know it!"_

**Peaceful Defender**-And then you got Clarky, who has the patience of Job when it comes to dealing with Sherlock, actually enjoys blowing up corpses and grills, is a sweetheart to Molly, and yet he can't sing to save his life, and he carries around too many guns!

**OC Clarky**-_Hey_! I can sing! Hold on! Let me get my guitar! (runs off)

**Peaceful Defender**-Someone, _please_ review before he comes back, and I have to listen to both him and Chase sing at the same time! Oh, and you are all welcomed to vote on who is more likeable between Chase and Clarky! Imput is always welcomed, in case I decide to kill off one of them later (just kidding!)


	25. Chapter 24

**Warning: Fluff, mention of nudity, and a meeting with Mycroft's "superior."**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Four: Family Ties**

"A grandmother is a mother who has a second chance." Author Unknown

* * *

"Sir?" Not-Anthea said, her flawless face betraying a hint of apprehension. "We have a situation."

"What is it, Melissa?" Mycroft replied calmly. After the disappointment of failing to intercept Sherlock at Paddington Station, he and John sat in the small lounge together, brooding and trying to figure out where to look for Sherlock next.

Not-Anthea's dark eyes widened slightly as she talked to her boss. "Sir, as you have requested, Mrs. Hudson is being transported here. Our agents intercepted the train she was on, and escorted her to one of our transports. Estimated time of arrival is in less than five minutes."

"Did she come voluntarily?" Mycroft inquired.

John smirked at Mycroft's question.

_Since when did that ever matter to Mycroft? _

"Yes, Sir. However, she is not arriving alone. You see…_she _is with her."

Mycroft closed his eyelids for a moment, then opened them slowly, like an owl. "How much does she know?"

"She wouldn't say, Sir, although she did know that you requested Mrs. Hudson's presence, and insisted that she accompany her."

"Then she _knows_ Sherlock is alive." Mycroft grumbled, looking thoroughly annoyed.

"Yes Sir." Not-Anthea said, sympathetically.

Mycroft closed his eyes again. "Very well. See to it that the staff prepares her room as well, if you would be so kind. She likes the gold satin sheets, and make sure there are fresh flowers. Orchids, preferably. Also, see that her usual security detail is on standby. Oh, and please ensure that Mr. Douglas stays in the study. I don't want him pestering her, like the last time, and calling her _'The Great and Powerful Oz!'"_

"Right away, Sir." Not-Anthea said, stepping to the door quickly.

"Oh, one more thing, Melissa." Mycroft noted, stopping Not-Anthea in her tracks.

"Yes Sir?" Not-Anthea asked with some trepidation.

"Please remove 'Abby' from sight, at least during the duration of her stay with us."

"Right away, Sir!" Not-Anthea said, rushing out of the door to make the necessary arrangements.

Mycroft got up from his chair and walked over to the decorative mirror hanging on one of the walls. Deftly, he smoothed back his hair and checked to make sure his clothes were still pristine.

Then, as an afterthought, he walked over to the opposite side of the room, where a table waited with several decanters and empty crystal glasses.

He quickly poured himself a glass and downed it in one gulp. He then poured himself another glass.

"Uh, Mycroft? Isn't it a little _early_ for that?" John ventured hesitantly.

"This is for emergency purposes only, John." Mycroft mumbled as he quickly finished off his second drink.

John studied Mycroft, who still looked as alert as ever, but he had failed to hide the obvious discomfort he was feeling. "Dare I ask? Is her Majesty coming?"

"_Worse!_" Mycroft replied, his cold blue eyes flashing with an inner fire. "Much, much worse!"

Mycroft glanced at his golden inlay pocket watch, then snapped it shut and headed for the door. "Well, they should be arriving any second. I might as well get this over with!"

"_Who_ is coming?" John asked, unnerved now.

Mycroft paused, looking back at the army doctor with some hesitancy. Finally, he answered. "One of the most influential women in Britain, John. Although she, like myself, prefers to work from behind the scenes and thus rarely draws attention to herself. Most people have never even heard of her, and yet she is a driving force behind many of Britain's policies in the last few decades. She commands respect at all times, and despite appearances, she is considered to be extremely dangerous by her enemies. Thus, it is best not to displease her."

"Is she one of your superiors?" John asked quickly as they walked out of the room.

"She might as well be!" Mycroft mumbled.

* * *

"_John!"_ Mrs. Hudson cried joyously as she threw her arms around the bemused doctor, who was touched by the landlady's affection. "Oh, _thank God!_ I heard on the news that someone was shot at the flat! So, are you alright? Are you in any pain?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson." John tried to persuade the elderly woman. "I'm just fine. The man who attacked me was shot! I'm fine!"

Mrs. Hudson answered by hugging John again. "Oh, my poor boy! I'm so glad you are alright! If you went out and faked your death, like Sherlock did…"

John pulled himself away from Mrs. Hudson's embrace. "You _know?_"

"Of course, my dear!" Mrs. Hudson replied. "Ophelia arrived at my sister's flat, just thirty minutes after the news about you came on, and told me she received word that Sherlock was still alive! Can you believe that? Oh, that wretched boy! I can't _believe_ he would do this to us! Just wait till I get my hands on him!"

John couldn't help but be amused by the thought of Mrs. Hudson chasing after Sherlock with her broom, just like the time she did one time when one of Sherlock's experiments almost destroyed the kitchen.

He also couldn't help but be grateful to this as-of-yet unidentified "Ophelia," as _he_ did not relish the thought of telling Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock had lied to them all.

"Now, where's Mary?" Mrs. Hudson said, looking around. "Ophelia said that she was fine, but I want to see it with my own eyes. Not that I don't trust her, of course, but Mary's such a sweet girl, I can't believe that anyone would attack her…"

"Wait! Wait! Hold on. Who is 'Ophelia?'" John asked incredulously.

Mrs. Hudson looked up, and smiled at John's obvious confusion. "Oh! Ophelia is Sherlock's mother, dear! Didn't you know?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

John thought that if his jaw dropped any lower, it ran the distinct possibility of hitting the ground. "You actually know _Mummy?!_"

The sound of quiet laughter came from the entrance door. "I see that my sons have discussed me in front of you, Doctor Watson!"

John turned to see an elderly lady, about the same age as Mrs. Hudson, being pushed forward in a wheelchair. She was dressed in a navy coat decorated with silver and pearl buttons, as well as matching shoes. Her hair was reddish-brown, a few shades lighter than Mycroft's, although hers was streaked with silver. She seemed to be very slight, almost delicate, as though she could shatter physically if someone touched her. However, the firm lines etched in her face and jaw line indicated that she deferred to no one, and was used to get what she wanted when she wanted it.

The woman turned her familiar blue-grey-green eyes towards Mycroft, who stood quietly to the side, as though he was trying to disappear into the expensive wood panels and tapestries lining the hallway. "Mycroft, dear! How are you?"

"As well as can be expected, Mummy." Mycroft answered quietly, inclining his head. "But I am concerned you have taken such liberties with your health! You know what the doctors have said."

The woman smiled before turning to John and Mrs. Hudson. "Mycroft seems to think that any journey I take is bound to be my last! He forgets all the trips I undertook for Her Majesty when he was younger! And occasionally, when my services to the Crown are needed."

"The doctors said that you shouldn't be moving around so much, Mummy." Mycroft muttered, his voice inflectionless. It was evident that this was a family argument that had existed for quite a while.

"The doctors also said that I would never walk again! But they were wrong!" The woman, whom John realized was named Ophelia, replied smugly before gripping the sides of the chair and standing up. She caught John's glance and, like all Holmes members, seemed able to read his mind. "Multiple sclerosis. As a medical man, I am sure you know what that entails, Doctor Watson. But I can get around fine most of the time, and only use that _thing_ whenever I must undertake long trips." Ophelia explained as she looked back at the wheelchair with some contempt.

Now that she was standing, John could see she was tall, just like her sons, although his earlier impression of her slightness was further enhanced now that she was no longer sitting down.

Ophelia walked forward a few steps towards John and offered her hand. "I am so pleased to finally meet you, Doctor Watson. Sherlock has told me so many delightful things about you! And I have heard quite a bit about you from Mycroft, as well."

"Doctor John Hamish Watson, let me introduce you to the Lady Ophelia Ambrosie Cyrille Holmes." Mycroft intoned, as though he was at a royal function.

Ms. Holmes inclined her head graciously, but she gave her son a look of fond annoyance. "Mycroft, really! As Doctor Watson is a friend of Sherlock's, as well as a war hero, I highly doubt that he would be impressed by the use of _titles!_" She then turned back to John, her expression open and friendly. "Please, would you address me as 'Ophelia?' I prefer it when I am amongst people I wish to acquaint myself with."

"Certainly, Ms. Holmes! I mean, _Ophelia!"_ John stammered again, feeling more and more foolish, as if he was back at Buckingham Palace and was caught actually trying to steal an ash tray.

"Hey! I didn't know you were a war hero, John!"

John turned around to find that Clarky, of all people, had apparently snuck out of the foyer and had witnessed the exchange.

For such a big man (easily as tall as Sherlock, and several stones heavier), he was remarkably adept to moving around without anyone noticing.

"I'm not, Clarky." John replied, his cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"Really? And what basis do you define _heroic_, Doctor? According to your file, you once saved a few of your fellow soldiers by charging several heavily-armed insurgents with nothing but your Browning pistol. As I recall, you killed five of the enemy, and kept the rest at bay until a helicopter could come to extradite your wounded comrades." Ophelia replied good-naturedly.

"John, you never told me that!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, looking at John with wonder.

John lowered his head. "_It was nothing!_ I did what anyone else would have done!"

"I don't think so, John! Remember, I was over there too, and the best plan I had in combat situations was to grab my ankles, lower my head, and kiss my butt goodbye!" Clarky disagreed, looking at John with new-found respect.

Mycroft looked at Clarky with an amused expression. "You forgot about that one particular incident, Dr. Clarkson, when you ran into a burning building to save several people, including your superior officer!"

Clarky turned beet-red. "That happened while I was still in boot camp! And that's classified! No one's supposed to know about that!"

Mycroft grinned and turned to John and Mrs. Hudson. "Dr. Clarkson probably should have been awarded a medal of valor for his actions, but the incident was kept quiet, due to…"

"Due to the fact that I had to carry my drunk, naked-ass Sergeant out of a well-known hovel, because he chose to be in bed with, shall we say, a _working woman_?" Clarky muttered, looking humiliated. "Since _Mr. British Government_ here seems to take an interest in knowing everything about me, I might as well just say it like it was!"

"I would say that's a true example of valor, Clarky." John said, trying to keep his expression neutral.

Clarky rolled his green eyes in annoyance. "_John!_ Let's compare the two, shall we?" Clarky shot back disgruntledly. "Just picture it! You have one man taking out insurgents left and right as if he is the reincarnated _Alvin York_, and then you got _me_, with a naked man flung over my left shoulder, running out of a prostitution sand pit! I couldn't look any of my army buds in the face for a _week_ after that!"

John giggled as he pictured poor Clarky, doing a heroic act in the most _bizarre_ circumstances. He could imagine how it must have looked to people who had no idea what was happening…

Clarky nodded. "_See! _So you can see why my superiors didn't want _that_ story coming out!"

"And are you the 'Dr. Clarkson' that was involved in the takedown of that horrible organization that was engaged in illegal buying and selling of organs on the black market?" Ophelia asked kindly.

Clarky started, realizing that he had forgotten that she was there. "Oh! _Yes!_ I mean, of course, ma'am! And did I hear correctly earlier that you are Lucky's mother?"

Ophelia nodded. "Yes, I am Mycroft's and Sherlock's mother."

Clarky grinned winningly and stepped forward, taking Ophelia's outstretched hand into his own and pressed his lips to it in an air of exaggerated chivalry. "It's an honor to meet you, ma'am! I met your son a while back, and I had the pleasure of working with him for a few months, back at the States."

"I would say that's a first." Mycroft noted dryly. "For anyone to say it was a pleasure to work with _Sherly!"_

"Now, now, Mycroft! I know you are upset with Sherlock for not involving you in his plans, but that is no reason to act like a petulant child! Besides, _you_ were the one charged with making sure that your little 'gamble' didn't result in your little brother getting hurt in the first place." Ophelia scolded mildly.

Mycroft cast his eyes to the floor, chagrined. "I apologize, Mummy."

Ophelia addressed her son again, this time in a gentler tone. "Everyone makes mistakes, Mycroft. The important thing is to learn from them. Now, what do we know if Sherlock's probable whereabouts? I deduce he is going after Moriarty on his own."

"Correct." Mycroft said. "We have recently regained control of the CCTV system, and our people are currently surveying the footage for any clues as to Sherly's whereabouts."

"Very good." Ophelia said approvingly.

"If I may ask a question, Mrs. Holmes?" Clarky asked hesitantly.

"Of course you may, Dr. Clarkson. And please, it's _Ophelia_."

Clarky smiled. "Only if you call me _Clarky._ All my friends do!"

John couldn't help but be a little envious of how easily Clarky managed himself in front of the infamous _Mummy_ that he himself had heard references to but had never even seen before now.

He could now see just how Clarky managed to make the usually diffident Molly to open up to him and be more comfortable with people in social situations.

Ophelia nodded in affirmation. "Very well, Clarky. What is your question?"

Clarky shrugged. "Well, I wasn't here when it happened, so I just finding out about everything. But how is it that you learned about Lucky? Did Mr. Holmes here call you?"

Ophelia smiled, but her voice had a slight edge to it. "Actually, Mycroft did not contact me. I learned of Sherlock's status this morning, just after breakfast."

"_Oh._" Mycroft said, his polite tone conveying a mild threat. "And who amongst my staff thought it best to disturb you with information of this delicate situation before I myself could come to you with the facts?"

Ophelia turned her stormy eyes towards her eldest. "Mycroft, dear, you really need to stop this! You cannot protect everyone all the time! Although God knows how much you try! But please remember that I am your _mother,_ not a child, and I do not need to be protected from _shocking information!_ Remember all the times that Sherlock had gotten himself into trouble, one way or another? I do not recall being emotionally shattered by it!"

"Learning that your younger son was barred from the American Embassy for insulting the Secretary of State versus believing him to be dead for eighteen months just to find out that he is still alive is hardly a comparison, Mummy!" Mycroft pointed out. "I would rather break the news to you myself. Or, better yet, drag Sherly in with me and have _him _explain his actions!"

Clarky elbowed John. "Lucky gets himself barred from events all the time! _Big deal!"_

"And the American Embassy is not a 'big deal?'" Mycroft observed dryly, turning towards the wisecracking Tennessean.

Clarky shrugged. "I got myself banned from Florida University for helping to kidnap their mascot one year! So unless your brother stole an alligator and almost drove it across state lines, then I'm not impressed!"

"Then _prepare_ to be impressed…" Mycroft started.

"Now, now, Mycroft!" Ophelia broke in. "We all know Sherlock was rather _rambunctious_ as a young child! No need to bore these nice young men with stories without Sherlock here to explain his reasoning!"

"Very well, Mummy." Mycroft intoned respectfully.

Ophelia gave her son a sly smile before turning back to Clarky. "To answer your question, Clarky, I received a visitor earlier this morning. A solicitor from America, by the name of Chelsea Atkins."

"Ms. Morray's second-in-command." Mycroft observed, his blue eyes narrowed.

"Correct." Ophelia answered. "She explained that Sherlock faked his death, and that Ms. Morray had found out. As she recognized the threat that Moriarty continued to pose to us all, Ms. Morray left instructions for her lieutenants to assist Sherlock in taking Moriarty's empire apart."

"And Ms. Atkins, on instructions from Sherlock, informed you that my wayward brother was alive, so that you would tell me." Mycroft deduced.

"Correct again, my dear." Ophelia replied. "And here I am! Although from your lack of surprise, I gather that you have already learned about Sherlock's survival. May I inquire as to how _you_ obtained that information so soon after I did?"

The three men stared as the full import of Ophelia's words sunk in. "You mean, you don't _know?_" John asked, his jaw dangerously close to falling on the floor again.

"Know what, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked. Her face showed that neither she nor Ophelia knew what they were talking about.

"_Okay…_" Clarky said, looking at Mycroft and John significantly. Turning back to the two women, Clarky put on his most charming smile. "So I take it no one has told you about a little girl who saved John and me earlier?"

"Little girl? _What little girl?_" Mrs. Hudson asked, her eyes round with confusion.

"Whatever is he referring to, Mycroft?" Ophelia asked, directing her powerful gaze at her eldest son.

"He's talking about Sheridan." John replied, hoping that this was all a misunderstanding, and that the ladies, in fact, knew that Sherlock had fathered a child.

"_Sheridan?_ Who is Sheridan?" Mrs. Hudson inquired, her words dashing John's hopes as quickly as a bucket of water does to a lit flame.

Mycroft threw John and Clarky a cold look that could have spoiled milk before turning his attention back to his mother. "Mummy, as you have no doubt deduced, I learned from a separate source about Sherlock's miraculous survival. During that exchange, I also learned about another secret about my brother that we have been hereto excluded from until today."

"Is it bad?" Ophelia asked. Although her tone remained the same as before, her expression was not as guarded as her son's. "Is something wrong with Sherlock?"

"Not that I am aware of, Mummy. As of right now, I have no knowledge of Sherlock's status. Only that he is alive. No, the secret that I am referring to is not what I would consider _bad,_ exactly. More along the lines of _unexpected._" Mycroft replied evasively.

"I see." Ophelia acknowledged, although her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And what other information could _possibly _be more unexpected than learning that my youngest son faked his death by jumping off a building and continuing his charade for a year and a half?"

"And who is this '_Sheridan?'_" Mrs. Hudson asked, looking at John and Clarky with apprehension.

"I'm Sheridan."

All five adults turned to the source of the voice. At the end of the hallway stood Sheridan, who regarded the newcomers curiously. Behind her, Not-Anthea stood a few feet away, looking ready to step in if something happened, but otherwise occupied with her Black Berry.

Oblivious or uncaring to the tension in the room, Sheridan took a few steps forward. "I'm Sheridan." She repeated in a softer voice. "Melissa told that you wished to see me."

* * *

It turned out that Not-Anthea, perhaps sensing the interrogation that her employer was to go through at the hands of his infamous mother, thought that the best way to end his suffering quickly was to go and retrieve Sheridan so that she may introduce herself.

John thought the pre-emptive move was risky at best. After all, considering how they all had reacted to the news so far, it was highly probable that the two elderly and frail women could have dropped dead from the shock.

Another potentially bad outcome would be if the women reacted negatively to Sheridan's existence.

Not that he thought Mrs. Hudson would, of course! After all, _she_ once entertained notions that Sherlock and him were a couple!

But Ophelia, who had come from an influential background, and seemed to come from "old money," could have been upset by the fact that Sherlock had a child out of wedlock.

John should have known better.

Mrs. Hudson responded first by lightly slapping John on his arm. It was not enough to hurt him, just to let him know that she was exasperated with him. "_John!_ Why didn't you tell me my Sherlock had a daughter?!"

John stammered. "_Uh?_ I didn't know! Until today, anyway! Why don't you go blame Mycroft?"

"Because that is _my_ job." Ophelia acknowledged seriously. She gave Mycroft a knowing look. "Mycroft, dear, am I to understand that the beautiful little girl standing a few meters away from me is my grandchild, and that Sherlock did not seem to think it _important_ enough to inform me of that particular matter?"

"Yes, Mummy." Mycroft replied quietly.

"_I see._ Well, once we find your brother, then we must have a talk with him about this!" Ophelia answered significantly. "He's known how much I have longed for grandchildren! You would think he would be considerate enough to share this with us!"

She turned her gaze to Sheridan and her face softened instantly. "Is it my imagination, or does she not look exactly like Sherlock did when he was that age? How old is she, Mycroft? Seven, or eight, perhaps."

"She is eight years old, Mummy." Mycroft explained. "Her birthday is on June 12th."

Ophelia looked at her son curiously. "Then am I to understand that her mother is Ms. Danielle Morray?"

Mycroft nodded wordlessly.

"You mean you both realized that Sheridan is Sherlock's daughter after seeing her for one second?!" John asked, amazed at the two women's quick observation.

"_John!_ It's so _obvious_, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson remarked. "Oh, this is _wonderful!"_

Without another word, she walked quickly over to the young girl (bad hip and all) and embraced her.

Sheridan looked back at John and Mycroft over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, her silver-like eyes clearly asking for guidance on how to handle this unexpected turn of events. She didn't look disgusted at the contact, just incredibly surprised. But before anyone could say anything, Mrs. Hudson pulled away from her, but still stayed close enough to peer into her face. "She is the very picture of Sherlock! Look at her eyes! Ophelia, she has your eyes!"

"She does." Ophelia said wistfully. "But I observe that she has her mother's ears. And her nose is also like her mother's."

Sheridan had been quiet until now, perhaps sensing that she needed to let the women have time to adjust before interjecting any comments. However, this reference to her departed mother could not go by unremarked. "You knew Mom?" Sheridan whispered, almost too low to hear.

"I am afraid not, my dear." Ophelia said, taking a few steps towards Sheridan. Her eyes seemed misty. "I have seen pictures, of course. She was a beautiful girl. And very intelligent, according to her file. A prodigy, in many ways. Sherlock was always intrigued by people who were unique, in some way." She turned around and awarded Mycroft with a smug smile.

"Alright! I'll admit it, Mummy!" Mycroft suddenly interjected. "You were correct in deducing that Sherlock viewed Ms. Morray as something more than a passing fancy! So I will admit that your so-called motherly instincts were surprisingly accurate, for once!"

Ophelia pursed her lips in annoyance. "_Mycroft!_ My _motherly instincts_, as you insist on calling them, have been correct more times that you would care to admit. And the woman's name was Danielle! Stop acting like she was one of the politicians and non-entities that you deal with on a daily basis. She is also the mother of my grandchild! I think it is allowable for us to be a little less formal when we speak of her!"

John heard the possessiveness and pride in Ophelia's voice and smiled, a warm feeling growing in his chest.

_So much for worrying that Sheridan wouldn't be accepted right away by her paternal grandmother! _

He couldn't help but be touched by the scene unfolding around him. He knew, from his meetings with Mycroft, that Danielle Morray's entire family was killed by Moriarty. So Sheridan has grown up without the benefit of having aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, or any of the extended family that she should have been entitled to.

_At least now Sheridan was no longer so alone._

Mrs. Hudson leaned forward, looking at Sheridan kindly. "Do you know who I am, Sheridan?"

"You're Mrs. Martha Hudson." Sheridan said, smiling at her. "Dad told me what you looked like! You're Dad's landlady, but not his cook or housekeeper! You rent the building at 221 Baker Street. I got to see inside it today. You keep it very clean, by the way!"

"Why, thank you, dear!" Mrs. Hudson gushed.

"And you are the Lady Ophelia Holmes." Sheridan continued, looking towards Ophelia. "Dad says you are his mother, and that he calls you 'Mummy.' He also said that you can 'see' like Dad, Uncle Mycroft, and I can. Is that true?"

"It is." Ophelia acknowledged. "But my ability is nowhere near that of my sons. They surpassed me in that regard."

Sheridan regarded her paternal grandmother with frank interest. "I'm very pleased to meet you both, finally! Dad told me about you, and I know it must be a little disconcerting, meeting me like this…"

"Sherlock's ability to shock me is a skill that he takes great pride in!" Ophelia said, smirking a little. "However, this is one time that I am happy to say that his impetuous actions lead to a desirable result!"

"But why didn't Sherlock tell us?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her face a mixture of elation and hurt. "I think I have the right to know if one of my boys has a child!"

Clarky smirked and leaned forward until he was close to John. "_One of her boys?_" He whispered low enough to where no one else but John could hear.

John nodded, chagrined. "You should have seen her the day I told her I was going to get engaged to Mary! You would have thought _she_ was the one being proposed to!"

Clarky snickered loudly, earning him several curious glances. When he caught everyone looking at him, Clarky coughed, embarrassed. "Well, I hate to interrupt this, but Greg sent me to get you, Mr. Holmes. We just got a call from Scotland Yard. Greg says it's important."

John looked at Clarky with alarm. "Did they find Sherlock?"

"John, everyone who knows that Lucky is alive is in this building! No one else from the Yard knows yet!" Clarky pointed out before turning back towards Mycroft. "But Greg says you better come quickly. Something about a Bear girl, or something!"

"_Bear girl?_" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"He means 'Burhl,' Sir." Not-Anthea noted, looking up from her Black Berry. "I am just getting the report now. Our sources say that Claudette Burhl was the intended target of an abduction."

"_Intended target?_ Then whoever was behind it did not succeed." Mycroft noted mildly.

"Isn't Burhl the same child who was abducted last time, when Sherlock was arrested?" Mrs. Hudson asked John.

"Yes." John answered stoically.

Mycroft's face was a mask of concentration. He turned to Not-Anthea. "Melissa, please escort Mrs. Hudson and Mummy to their rooms. John, Sheridan, you both come with me. We need to discuss this new development with Inspector Lestrade."

"Before you run off with Martha's and my grandchild, Mycroft, I wish to have a private word with you, if you have a moment." Ophelia said quietly.

Mycroft nodded. "Melissa, please take Ms. Hudson to her room, and then take her to see Ms. Morstan. Dr. Clarkson, John. Please take Sheridan back to the parlor with the others. I shall not take long."

Wordlessly, the others left, leaving the foyer empty except for Mycroft, Ophelia, and two men on security detail, who successfully melted into the background.

* * *

"Yes, Mummy?" Mycroft asked politely, once everyone else had cleared out. After the others had left, mother and son retreated to the private lounge that Mycroft and John were in moments before. "What do you wish to speak to me about?"

Ophelia regarded her eldest seriously. "You understand the mission has changed now, my dear. Our original purpose, when we set out to destroy Moriarty's empire, was to capture the man himself, so that he may questioned for any information he may have that could be of use to the Crown."

"I remember, Mummy. After my superiors learned of my intentions, they instructed me to capture Moriarty alive. Until today, I had every intention of following their instructions."

"But not now." Ophelia guessed.

"No. As you know, I was loath to do so anyway. But I wished to set aside my personal feelings on the matter, and ensure that Moriarty would not destroy another family, as he tried to destroy ours."

"So we are in agreement." Ophelia replied evenly. "Today, your brother, against all reason, has been restored to us. And, miraculously, we seemed to have gained a new addition to the family!"

Mycroft nodded. "Anyone who knows Sherly at all will have a difficult time believing that he is a father!"

"_I_ know Sherly, and I have no difficulty in believing it." Ophelia chided gently. "But now the situation has changed. We must now balance Moriarty's possible value to the danger he poises to Sherlock and my grandchild."

Mycroft frowned, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. "There is nothing Moriarty has, information or otherwise, that is valuable enough to keep him alive, Mummy. I will see to it that the danger he poises will be neutralized. _Permanently."_

"So you would disregard your superiors' orders, just to satisfy a mother's worry." Ophelia noted, smiling a little.

Mycroft smirked. "Mrs. Hudson once told me that family was all that one had, when everything else was gone. You were wise in choosing her as your informant regarding Sherly's welfare."

Ophelia smiled wider. "Please, Mycroft. Martha is hardly an _informant!_ She is a woman with a kind heart, and she loves Sherlock just as much as we do. She has been courteous enough to keep me informed of my son's comings and goings over the years. Even after his alleged death, she still met with me occasionally to reminisce about him. I am indebted to her, and thus I must look to ensure her continued safety as well."

Abruptly, Ophelia set her jaw, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. "That is why Moriarty must _never_ have a chance to escape, Mycroft! Despite what the Crown thinks, Moriarty _must_ die! He cannot be allowed to draw breath if we have any hope of protecting our own!"

Mycroft nodded, his expression equally as serious as his mother's. "Moriarty, assuming he is captured alive, will not be around long enough to pose any risk to us. You have my word on that."

* * *

Donovan should have become accustomed to surprises by now, especially after everything that had occurred today. But nothing prepared her for the news she got after Lestrade got a call from Inspector Gregson.

"So someone tried to snatch Ambassador Bruhl's daughter _again!?_"

Lestrade nodded grimly as he pocketed his cell phone. "Based on what the security guy whom Mr. Bruhl hired to protect his daughter told Gregson, we believe that the perv was a known associate of Moriarty's by the name of Peter Harper! The Yard is currently searching the hotel and the surrounding area for any sign of him."

Donovan nodded. Now _that _was something that didn't surprise her in the least! "So that bastard was trying to kidnap her and take her to Moriarty?"

"Looks that way. Anyway, Gregson asked for us to come to the Yard. They also want us to bring John with us."

"_John?_ Why?" Donovan asked.

Lestrade looked at Donovan significantly. "The Bruhl girl was taken out of the building by an unidentified fire fighter. He coaxed her to come along with him by giving her some dog tags for her to wear. To make her brave, she says."

Anderson cocked his head to the side. "I'm confused, Greg! Why does any of this have to do with John?"

"Because the dog tags have John's name on them." Lestrade said.

* * *

"So your father _stole_ John's dog tags?" Hopkins asked Sheridan.

"He didn't _steal_ them! Stealing would imply that he planned to keep them!" Sheridan said crossly. "He _borrowed_ them! He was going on give them back to John after he captured Moriarty!"

"No wonder I couldn't find them!" John said, feeling half-exasperated and half-amused.

"I saw Lucky wear those dog tags once!" Clarky remarked, almost to himself. "When I asked him about it, he said they belonged to a close friend of his that he lost. Of course, when he said '_lost_,' I thought he meant that his friend died. Not the other way around!"

Sheridan looked unhappy with the news. "Dad said that he planned on giving them back to Uncle John! _Himself!_ So why would he leave them behind?"

Anderson laughed. "_Uncle John? _ Sherlock actually calls him _Uncle John?!_"

Sheridan looked at John, eyes wide with alarm. "_Oops!_ Sorry! I forgot! Dad was supposed to talk to you about that!"

Lestrade was amused by this turn of events. "Sherlock wanted you to refer to John as '_Uncle John?'_"

Sheridan nodded, her cheeks blushing slightly underneath her alabaster skin. "Dad said that when this was all over, he was hoping to ask John if he wouldn't mind being an uncle to me! If John forgave him, that is! I told Dad he was being silly, and of course Uncle John would forgive him! Dad is still worried about it, though. Dad seems to think I need a _normal_ uncle, because I only had two that were related to me. And according to Dad, one of them is a psychopath, and the other one has a power complex!"

John felt a rush of warm affection towards the absent consulting detective. There were times that he wondered if Sherlock held John in the same high regard that John felt for him. Sometimes he suspected that Sherlock just kept him around as an audience of one. Someone who openly admired his gift, but only served in the capacity of an assistant.

Now, it seemed that Sherlock really _did _regard John as a friend. Why else would he plan to name John as an "honorary uncle" to his daughter?

"Sheri, you can call me _Uncle John_, if you wish to." John replied to Sheridan encouragingly. "I have never been an uncle before, though. You'll have to be patient with me."

Sheridan looked up, relief and happiness reflected in her teal-colored eyes. "I've never been a niece before, either. Hopefully, you and Uncle Mycroft can help me with that!"

Mycroft seemed mildly indigent. "Leave it to Sherlock to tell my only niece that I have a _power complex!_" He muttered darkly.

"Well, you _do_, mate!" Hopkins said. "I remember you sending your men after me back in Paris a year ago! It's still better than being the psychopath, though!"

Sheridan looked at Mycroft, her pale face drawn with worry. "Uncle Mycroft, you don't think Dad is planning on breaking his promise, do you? He _told_ me he would come back for me!"

"I am sure it simply was an oversight, my dear." Mycroft said calmly. "Sometimes your father gets impatient, and he tends to forget things."

Sheridan wrinkled her nose. "Still, Dad wouldn't forget _anything_ that belonged to Uncle John!"

Mycroft smiled indulgently. "Your father simply forgot, Sheridan. It is something you need not concern yourself with."

Sheridan still looked unconvinced.

"Sheri?" Donovan interrupted, smiling encouragingly. "You said earlier that Sherlock said something about the number '666' having to do with a location?"

Sheridan nodded. "That's what he said! I wish he had told me before he left, though!"

Mary looked over at John, but addressed her question to Sheridan. "Sheri, when you last saw Sherlock, was he wearing an old blue coat, by any chance?"

Sheridan looked over at Mary, surprised. "You _saw_ Dad?!"

Mary smiled sadly. "Only for a moment, Sheri. I thought he looked familiar, somehow, but I'm afraid I didn't recognize him at the time! He left before I could speak to him, though."

John looked over at Lestrade, silently begging him to remain quiet about the Slasher.

Lestrade thankfully took the hint. "Sheri, what were you doing when your father told you this?"

Sheridan tilted her head to the side as she recalled the events in detail. "Well, we were going over my science lesson. See, he was teaching me how to make a homemade fire extinguisher, in case anything happened when we learned how to mix chemicals…"

"So Dr. Evil is teaching Mini-Me how to make bombs! _Lovely!_" Anderson muttered sarcastically.

Sheridan ignored him. "While we were doing that, I was going over my daily lessons with him. We were reviewing my history lesson, and I was talking about the pyramids in Egypt when Dad suddenly wasn't paying attention anymore. When he does that, it means he is thinking, and I need to be quiet, so I waited a few minutes. Suddenly, Dad jumped up and said he had to track down one of the Bad Men. Then he got into his disguise and left, telling me he would be back in a few hours."

"And that's all?" Hopkins asked anxiously.

"I'm afraid so." Sheridan said, looking disappointed with herself.

"Well, I better head back to the Yard." Lestrade said. "Now that Molly, Mary, Sheri, and Mrs. Hudson are safe, Moriarty can't use them…"

Mary suddenly shot out of her seat. "_Harry_, John's sister! And Clara! They…"

"I have already seen to the matter personally, Ms. Morstan." Mycroft said, gesturing for Mary to return to her chair. "Ms. Watson and her lover received a call a few hours ago to tell them they won an all-expense paid trip to Tuscany. They are currently on a plane, with several of my best agents watching over them. Not to their knowledge, of course. They will be protected, I assure you."

"Well, at least Mrs. Hudson doesn't have to worry about that Bad Man getting her! Dad would _never_ have let him go!" Sheridan observed.

All the adults turned to look at the young girl. "What do you mean by that, Sheri?" Donovan asked.

Sheridan looked at Donovan, smiling. "The Bad Man! _Harper!_ He was the one who was supposed to shoot Mrs. Hudson if Dad didn't jump! I think Dad _really_ hates him!"

Lestrade leaned forward. "So you _know_ the identity of the three snipers?"

Sheridan nodded. "Dad found out and told me! Harper is one! Moran was the one that was supposed to kill Uncle John, so that is another reason I am not sorry I shot him!" Sheridan folded her arms across her chest, looking extremely smug.

"How about the one who was supposed to shoot Greg?" Clarky asked.

"Oh, he still works with the Yard! As a Sergeant! His name is Michael Baxley!" Sheridan replied enthusiastically.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Hurray for Sheri! She finally has some grandmothers to spoil her! And John has accepted his role as an "honorary" uncle. After all this time, I think Sheridan deserves to be accepted into a family, don't you?

Don't you love how Ms. Hudson and Ms. Holmes seem to be in an alliance of sorts? Ophelia has Martha keep tabs on Sherlock for her, as she isn't able to, due to her poor health. In return, she allows Martha to particially claim Sherlock and share the mothering responsibilities (and now, **grandmother** responsibilities).

For a while, I have been making a big deal about how dangerous the Morray family was (being part of the criminal underworld and all). But the Holmes family are equally as dangerous! While they seem to be on the right side of the law, the secret conversation between Ophelia and Mycroft show that they can be equally as ruthless as Moriarty, especially when members of their family are threatened, and especially now that a child is involved.

And the fact that Mycroft is now willing to disregard orders from the top in order to arrange a (cough) accident for Moriarty shows that his priorities have shifted from his job to his family.

Meanwhile, we now know the identity of the third sniper. Michael Baxley, the idiot Sergeant who arrested Chase for singing "God Save the Queen" a year prior. But just how ruthless is he, and is Lestrade's life still in danger? Also, where is Sherlock headed to in such a hurry, and why did he leave the dog tags behind?

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock! And all work and no play makes Peaceful Defender a dull girl! (a nod to Stephen King's "The Shining," which I don't own either.)

Heck, do I own _anything?!_

**Peaceful Defender** (Holding an ice pack over her head)-Uh! I apologize to my readers! I had quite a birthday celebration a few nights ago, and I am still paying the price for it! And no, I didn't drink except for one glass of wine. I know my alcohol intake limits, and I always stick to them. One glass when I go out! Period! No more than that!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Then why do you look so hung over, Peaceful Defender? You look like you got hit in the face with the DMP's umbrella!

**Peaceful Defender**-I got hit over the head with a pool cue when one of my friends who couldn't come to my birthday party two days ago took me to a local club and tried to play pool last night. So my head hurts a little. I might even have a concussion.

**John Watson** (holding up one hand and raising two fingers)-How many fingers am I holding up?

**Peaceful Defender** (squinting)-On which hand?

**John Watson** (frowns)-I'm only holding up one hand! How long since you been like this?

**Peaceful Defender** (tries to think)-One day, two days...I lost count!

**John Watson-**You're worse than Sherlock!

**Peaceful Defender** (ignoring him)-So, because I am somewhat indisposed at the moment, one of my readers, Missy the Least, has been kind enough to step in and help me with this commentary. And she brought us some _real_ Chinese food for us to sample!

**John Watson**-Isn't she one of the Fan Fiction members who identified Moriarty earlier in your story?

**Peaceful Defender**-Yes! She also offered to help with my commentary, if the need arose. Considering the fact that I am now see double, I took her up on her offer.

**Missy the Least**-Chase Douglas, I've got a bone to pick with you!

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Me? _What did I do? I only drank one cup of coffee this morning! I swear!

**Missy the Least**-Would you kindly stop teasing poor Mycroft? Just because he's on an Avengers kick...

**OC Chase Douglas**-I KNEW IT! (throws himself onto the floor and hugs Mycroft's legs) I knew there was no way Bruce Banner was the Incredible Hulk! He gets angry way to quickly! I knew it had to be someone who could control his anger, until he needed to let it loose! (Looks up at Mycroft) Come on, DMP! Say it for me! "_DMP SMASH!"_

**John Watson**(looks at Mycroft sympathetically and points to Chase)-Do you want me to shoot him?

**Missy the Least**-"NOOO, not the guys in steel and spandex, I mean the _real_Avengers! Mr. Steed and Mrs. Peel, British superspies, the guys and gals who put MI-6 on the map, they were Bond before 007 was...Myckie knows what I mean, he's only about 4 years younger than me, he obviously remembers them, he's got Steed nailed, down to the legs crossed leaning on the umbrella move. Speaking of which, please show him that we Americans do actually have manners and introduce me, hmmm?

**OC Chase Douglas**-Oh, right! Missy the Least, this is my idol, whom I aspire to serve and protect! Mr. Mycroft Holmes, a.k.a. the "Demented Mary Poppins" to his enemies!

**Peaceful Defender**(whispers to John Watson)-He kind of reminds me of a hyperactive cocker spaniel, the way he runs around Mycroft!

**Missy the Least**-Mr. Holmes, it's an honor and a privilege, I'm Marie, very pleased to meet you. Please don't let Chase's antics fuss you. He's good hearted, but kids of his generation don't stand much on ceremony anymore. Frankly, if the kid didn't have a nickname for you, no matter how silly, I'd be worried then. To an American, not being on some type of first name basis is almost an insult to the person being called by their formal last name...unless the last name sounds like a first name or to distinguish between several people with the same first name. Anyways, thank you for taking us seriously and allowing our merry band to help take down Moriarty and his ilk.

**Mycroft Holmes**-The pleasure is all mine, my dear. And I do extend my sincere congratulations for the ingenuity and cunning that you and your friends showed in the most dangerous circumstances. Had Moriarty caught on that you had recognized him, and were in the process of obtaining proof to show that he was still alive, your lives would have been in considerable jeopardy, so I applaud you on your perseverance and bravery.

**Missy the Least**-By the way, would you introduce me to Sheridan? That child needs some serious mothering, a lot of hugs and a lot of bedtime stories, and I volunteer to babysit. I have a bunch of the classics with me, and what I don't have, I can just tell from memory (I do a very good Gollum).

**OC Chase Douglas** (grabs hold of Mycroft's umbrella and starts petting it) _My Precious!_

**John Watson**-I say he had a _little more_ than one cup of coffee!

**Mycroft Holmes**-Missy the Least, I will be pleased to introduce you to Sheridan at some point in the future. I only wish you would have made the offer to do the same to Mr. Douglas here…

**Peaceful Defender** (scoffs)-Oh, admit it, Mycroft! He may drive you crazy, but you actually like having him around!

**Mycroft Holmes**-His skills are useful, I suppose. Perhaps, once I have the time to spare him, I shall send him back to the states to complete his education, so that I may employee him in the future. (Looks down at Chase continuing to stroke his umbrella) Provided that he behaves himself, of course.

**Missy the Least**-Meanwhile you all need something to eat! Peaceful Defender, if you'll help me with those bags there, I've brought takeout from Chinatown in NYC - 5 different kinds of dim sum, a tureen of hot & sour soup, batter fried sea bass, spicy shrimp, beef with oyster sauce, chicken stir-fry, 'lion-head' meat balls (the best ground pork you will every eat), plenty of rice, a tin of Chinese jasmine tea (just need cups and hot water, sugar if absolutely needed NO MILK JOHN!), soy sauce (the good stuff), and chop sticks with free lessons, and orange slices, almond cookies and fortune cookies for dessert. Figure I'll introduce you folks to some really good Chinese food (just don't hate me what it spoils you for anything else!).

**Peaceful Defender**-That sounds great! Let's eat some of this, before the next chapter is posted. Who knows, it may cure my headache!


	26. Chapter 25

**Warning: Suggestive language, mentions of violence, and a crime against yours truly!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Five: Tactics**

"Action is the real measure of intelligence." Napoleon Hill

* * *

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid!_" Hopkins berated himself for the thousandth time during the ride back to London.

"How could we have missed it?!" Donovan muttered angrily. "When Mary was attacked, the dispatch call just said something about a potential mugging! Yet Baxley shows up and just _knows_ that the attack involved the Slasher!"

Hopkins shook his head in disbelief. "_That's_ how the Slasher was able to disappear from the scenes! I bet Baxley waited for him in his car and drove him away, knowing we wouldn't think to check a fellow officer's car for a killer! _How could we be so blind?!_"

"It's not your fault, you two!" Lestrade said. "Baxley had everyone fooled!"

"I always knew that guy wasn't right!" Anderson muttered under his breath. "There was always something off about him, like he could barely keep it together! We should have _known _he was a criminal!"

Clarky grinned as the stretch limousine they were in continued its way back to London. "Seems like the good old country boy was right! I _told_ you Lucky had a reason for not going to the Yard! If he did, you all could be _dead _by now! Especially you, Greg!"

"Stow it, redneck!" Hopkins shot back.

"A _gun-carrying_ redneck! And don't you forget it!" Clarky smirked.

John sighed and looked over at Mycroft. "Next time, the Yarders get their own limo!"

"_Oi!_" Anderson protested.

"_Enough!_ Everyone, just _shut it_ for a minute! I need to think!" Lestrade said angrily. He turned towards Mycroft. "Just where are we going, anyway? To the Yard?"

Mycroft nodded. "Now that we have control of the CCTV system, Moriarty can no longer observe us. Also, the members of my security team are trained professionals. I am confident that they can handle any threat Moriarty may pose."

Lestrade gasped. "I thought we were going back to search for your brother!"

"We are, Lestrade. I just wish to preserve your safety until we find him. Sherlock would never me if anything should happen to you while you are under my protection."

"Yeah, don't worry about a thing, Greg!" Hopkins said encouragingly. "We will make sure nothing happens to you or John."

"Why do _I_ need protection?" John asked. "Bloody hell, I survived Afghanistan! I think I can take care of myself!"

"Uh, John? You may want to take a look at your neck before you say anything else." Clarky pointed out, looking embarrassed.

John reached up to his throat and winced. _Oh, right._

"I still don't see why _I_ have to be protected!" Lestrade grumbled irritably.

"Maybe because a _sniper_ is gunning for you?" Clarky asked innocently.

"Moriarty could have a sniper on all of us! How come _you_ can't be protected?" Lestrade protested.

"Greg, use your head!" Donovan snapped. "Do you really think Moriarty would have a sniper pointed at _me_, just to get even with _Sherlock!?_"

"_That's not the point!"_ Lestrade yelled. "Hell, Moriarty probably doesn't know Sherlock's alive yet! He probably isn't targeting Sherlock at all!"

Mycroft set aside his umbrella for a second to clap his hands together several times. "Well done, Inspector! _Now_ I understand what Sherlock sees in you!"

"_What?_" Lestrade asked, bristling slightly at Mycroft's condescending tone.

"You have worked it out, Inspector." Mycroft explained. "The reason why all of this is happening. Moriarty is getting his revenge, but it is not directed at Sherlock! In fact, I rather doubt he is even aware of my brother's presence."

Clarky frowned. "So if Moriarty is not punishing Sherlock, then…_oh_! _I get it!"_ Clarky smacked his forehead, then winced as he realized he accidently hit the cut he received at the hands of Moran earlier. "_Damn!_"

"_Oi!_ Someone explain, please!" Anderson demanded petulantly.

"The Satanic Slasher, Dr. Anderson." Mycroft said calmly. "Moriarty, for some reason known only to himself, has decided to punish all those responsible for my brother's alleged demise!"

"Then why doesn't the bastard just kill himself and be done with it?!" Hopkins asked.

"Because he doesn't blame himself! He blames _us!_" John answered, his voice cold.

"_What?!_" Donovan asked. "_We_ didn't tell him to jump! Moriarty did!"

"All of this is one of Moriarty's _twisted_ little mind games! Do you remember when Sheri told us that Moriarty can detect people's emotions, even though he can't feel any empathy himself?" John asked.

All of the Yarders nodded, showing that they understood.

"Well, that is what he is doing now! The Satanic Slasher was just a messenger to taunt us! _I will burn the heart out of you!_ Except that this time it is directed at us!" John explained. "Moran told me that Moriarty's original plan was for Sherlock to be imprisoned, so that he would be easier to convince when Moriarty approached him later to ask him to join him. But he escaped!"

"And Moriarty blames the Met!" Lestrade realized, shuddering involuntarily. "He holds us responsible for what happened!"

"Not just you, Detective Inspector." Mycroft explained. "He blames _London._ And in particular, several individuals. He has lost his already minuscule hold on his sanity, and believes that he is avenging Sherlock's death. So even though he was the primary architect behind the entire debacle, he believes he is punishing those who forced him to make Sherlock jump to his death in the first place."

"Claudette Bruhl!" Donovan gasped. "_That's_ why he went after her tonight!"

"Correct, Sergeant! He doubtlessly has plans for her. Plans that are now disrupted, thanks to my brother's quick intervention." Mycroft said calmly. "Moriarty must now be aware that his days of playing games are coming to a close. In a few hours, this will all be over."

"Why? What happens in a few hours?" Anderson asked.

"Did you already forget, Anderson? _I_ haven't!" Hopkins said, grimacing. "In a few hours it will be November 4th, one year to the day that the Bart's tape was aired!"

"And Moriarty wants to plot something big! Something that would eclipse Sherlock's memory!" John theorized.

Mycroft nodded. "Correct, Doctor. It is my belief that he was planning to kidnap and kill the Bruhl girl. He then planned to frame someone for the crime. Probably you, someone from the Sherlockians, or someone else with a connection to Sherlock."

"Maybe that's why Moran didn't shoot John today." Clarky speculated. "Maybe he was planning to simply knock John unconscious, and drag him back to Moriarty."

"So maybe he didn't want me tortured." John realized. "Maybe he just wanted me to disappear, so when Claudette Bruhl was found, he would arrange it to where I would be blamed for the crime."

"But why didn't he kill Clarky?" Anderson asked. "Clarky would have been around to tell us that you were kidnapped!"

"He was being cautious, Anderson." Clarky muttered. "I bet that's why he hit me over the head in the first place. We were standing so close together, that he risked hitting John if he tried to shoot me. I bet when he had John captured, he was planning on finishing me off, probably with John's gun, or another planted weapon!"

"He probably was planning on forcing you to write a suicide note, taking credit for the murder and blaming the Bruhl girl for Sherlock's death." Hopkins speculated, turning to John.

"And he targeted Mary a few days before. With her death, no one would question that you had lost your mind." Donovan mentioned as awareness dawned on her.

"He targeted Ms. Morstan for another reason as well." Mycroft explained. "I asked Melissa to do a cross reference of the Slasher's victims with Sherlock's cases. A pattern was revealed. All the people who have died were related, either as a victim or witness, to cases that were referred to Sherlock through various members of the Yard once the officers realized that there was nothing they could do in their official capacity. Thus, they sent the cases to Sherlock."

"But how would Moriarty had known the names and addresses of the people involved in those cases?" John pondered.

Lestrade looked at John. "If an officer investigates a case, he always writes out a report, regardless of the outcome!"

"I bet Baxley got access to those files, and brought the information to Moriarty, which helped him pick out the victims he wanted the Slasher to target." Donovan commented, looking sick. "_That's_ why Baxley stuck around, even after everyone thought Sherlock jumped!"

"That sick bastard!" Clarky remarked, green eyes flashing. "I hope Lucky _kills _him! I can help him dispose of the body, too! Where no one will find it!"

"_Clarky!_" Lestrade protested.

Clarky refused to back down. "_What?_ I'm only saying what you are all thinking! And _I_ don't even know who this super villain Moriarty is, but he apparently has made it to where Lucky's had to live on the run all this time! You guys said that Moriarty was tried before! Well, look how well _that_ turned out!" Clarky exclaimed. "Personally, I say we should all get ourselves a rope and hang him high!"

"If Moriarty is captured, Dr. Clarkson, then I can assure you that a trial will not be needed." Mycroft replied. "With the evidence we currently have in our possession, I can convince my superiors to label Moriarty as a threat to the Crown, and he will be locked up indefinitely."

"You locked him up before!" John pointed out. "How do we know he won't get out again?"

"He won't." Mycroft replied. "I will see to it personally."

Even though the limo had the heat on to dispel the night chill, none of the passengers could ignore the icy feeling of dread as they realized the hidden threat that came from Mycroft's promise.

* * *

"Let me get this straight! Are you telling me that Holmes is _alive?!_" Gregson gasped breathlessly.

Lestrade groaned. The shock others felt at this revelation was quickly becoming old. "Apparently!"

Dimmock looked around at his fellow Yarders in shock. "So Baxley was telling us the _truth?_ Sherlock really _is_ alive?"

Gregson frowned. "Why did those girls lie, I wonder?"

"_Wait!_ What girls?" Anderson asked.

"The Sherlockians." Dimmock supplied helpfully. "Ms. Simmons and Ms. Somoto. They were the ones that called us, a few minutes after Gregson called you. They told us that Baxley and Harper were tied up in the hotel parking garage next door and took credit for their capture. When Baxley started raving, claiming _Sherlock_, of all people, had actually captured him, we thought he was nuts! Then Harper told him to shut it, and before you knew it, they both implicated each other in the attempted abduction of the Burhl girl! So we booked them, and brought the Sherlockians in for questioning!"

Gregson nodded. "Neither one of them is speaking, though. They have demanded to have their solicitors present. But at least no one is singing this time!"

"Hold on! _Singing!?_" Clarky gaped.

"Another story for another time, Clarky!" Donovan told her colleague. "But why would the Sherlockians deny Sherlock is alive? Isn't he their cult leader or something?"

"No doubt my brother ordered them to keep quiet." Mycroft noted dryly. "So that we would not interfere. We must confront them with the information we have ascertained."

Dimmock furrowed his forehead, still trying to process what he had heard. "So you guys think the fire fighter earlier was Sherlock?"

"Yes." Donovan replied.

"And you guys are telling me that Sherlock Holmes, that insufferable prick, has a _daughter?!_" Gregson broke in. "A living, breathing, child!? _And he has been raising her?!_"

"I had the same reaction, Gregson!" Donovan stated flatly.

"_How in the bloody hell did Sherlock end up with a kid?!_" Gregson muttered disbelievingly.

Clarky snickered, his expression amused. "Well, Gregson, I'm surprised you never heard this talk before! You see, when a woman and a man fall in love…"

"_Bugger off, Clarky!_" Gregson shot back. "I know about the facts of life! What I meant was that I can't believe that _Sherlock_, of all people, actually was _intimate_ with a female!"

Clarky smirked. "We _are_ still talking about the same guy, right? Hell, poor Lucky had to hide out from the females all the time back in Knoxville!"

"Obviously, Sherlock must have kept his mouth shut!" Dimmock interjected, smiling.

"Actually, he didn't." Clarky reflected. "He scared off some women that way! But it just encouraged others. They thought he was just playing hard to get!"

"Are the females in America _brain-dead?"_ Hopkins added jokingly.

"While you are all engaged in discussing the aspects of my brother's private life, all the while leaving me with _disturbing_ mental images that are sure to assist me in my New Years' resolution to lose unwanted weight, need I remind you that my brother's whereabouts, and those of Moriarty's, are still unknown?" Mycroft interjected.

"Oh, right! Sorry, Mr. Holmes." Clarky apologized, and then turned to Dimmock. "Did Lucky seem odd to you in any way?"

Dimmock shook his head. "Not really. But the guy I saw didn't sound like him at all! His voice was raspier, actually. Although I did notice that he kept coughing and rubbing his neck. Like he had a sore throat or something."

"Given the Slasher's perchance for cutting people's throats to keep them from calling out, it is evident that he attempted the same maneuver on Sherlock, but it proved somewhat ineffective." Mycroft noted.

The Yarders turned to Mycroft, stunned. "You think your brother's neck was cut wide open?!" Clarky gasped.

"No, Dr. Clarkson. I deduce that the Slasher probably managed to _injure_ my brother, but not enough, as you say, to cut his neck 'wide open.' Distracted as they may have been, I am sure Detective Inspectors Gregson and Dimmock would have noticed an injury _that_ severe!" Mycroft stated flatly.

"But that doesn't mean his throat wasn't cut." Lestrade replied, looking ill. "Bloody hell, he can die from blood loss, infection…"

"Someone had to have helped him." Clarky pointed out, not willing to watch Lestrade freak out. "Those kids you mentioned earlier. I bet they got him medical treatment!"

"Then let's stop talking about it and ask them!" John finally spoke up.

* * *

"Thank God!" Skylar breathed. "So _you_ have Sheridan!"

Nina smiled thankfully as she also digested the news that Sheridan was safe.

Mycroft paused as he observed the two Sherlockians. Almost a full year ago, he had been in a similar room, and the subject of his brother was once again being discussed. The irony of the situation failed to impress him overmuch, however.

It was a coincidence, nothing more.

_No need for him to feel worried…_

"Now, perhaps now you would be kind enough to divulge my brother's whereabouts?" Mycroft prompted.

"But that's just it, Mr. Holmes!" Nina spoke up. "We don't know where he went to! He wouldn't tell us!"

Mycroft turned his serpentine gaze towards the Asian woman. "Am I correct in deducing that _you_ are the one who has secretly been supplying my brother with information concerning my movements?"

Nina scowled. "It wasn't like that! He already knew what you were doing! He just wanted to know basic things. How you were doing, what your schedule was, what measures you were taking in regard to your safety, and other things like that! He wanted to make sure that you didn't know he was behind the whole thing, so you wouldn't interfere!"

"And you procured such information from your visits with Mr. Douglas, I assume."

Nina gritted her teeth. "Maybe Chase dropped a few details here and there. And yes, I used his love for caffeine to get him to talk to me! But Chase didn't know what he was doing! He never gave up any government secrets or anything like that! Just things about you, like your health and stuff! For reasons known _only_ to him, Chase seems to admire you, Mr. Holmes! So don't take it out on him!"

"I had no plans to do so, Ms. Somoto." Mycroft replied evenly. "My primary concern is intercepting my brother, before he does something dangerous. If you care about his welfare, as you profess to, then you will tell me everything you know!"

Skylar sighed, a gesture of surrender. "Sherlock told us to wait for him, back at the parking garage. With everything going on, it was deserted, and no one came to bother us. He came back, with Lawrence and Kenneth. They brought those men back with them."

"Harper and Baxley." Lestrade mentioned dryly.

Skylar nodded. "Right now, Lawrence and Kenneth are searching London for Sherlock's kid. I'll have to call them to tell them we found her…"

"Right now, the two gentlemen are being approached by my men, who will explain the situation to them and bring them back to Scotland Yard." Mycroft interrupted. "What happened after that? Did Sherlock find something, particularly in Sergeant Baxley's car?"

Nina gasped. "_How_…wait, I forgot! You're a Holmes, and you know _everything!_ But to answer your question, yes, Sherlock _did _find something! A black canvas bag. He opened it and went ballistic! He broke Baxley's nose before we were able to get him to calm down! He confronted Baxley about it, and deduced that whatever was inside the bag was meant for the Yard."

Lestrade waived his arms frantically, gesturing for Nina to stop. "Baxley was planning to do something at Scotland Yard?!"

"Does that surprise you, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked, his voice laced with condescension. "We have already deduced that Moriarty's asinine plans of revenge included the Yard. And upon learning that, my brother confiscated the bag." Mycroft stated flatly.

"That's right!" Nina said. "He also took a suitcase with him, too, although we don't know what was in it. He told us to hand Harper and Baxley over to the Yard, but to say _nothing _about him until after midnight tonight! Sherlock said that people's lives were dependent on it. If everything went as planned, he would show up here, with Moriarty, and turn him over to the authorities!"

Lestrade frowned. "Somehow, I doubt that Moriarty will allow himself to be taken alive."

"That's what we thought, too." Skylar conceded. "But we didn't have a better plan, so we decided to go along with it."

"What I want to know," John interrupted, his face grim, "is how you got involved in all of this, Nina! How long have you known Sherlock was alive?"

"I can answer that, John." Mycroft interjected. "Ms. Somoto's uncle once ran afoul of Moriarty, and was targeted for assassination. Due to an unfortunate coincidence, this man was the identical twin of Ms. Somoto's father. Moriarty, with the assistance of the Black Lotus, targeted the wrong brother, and Ms. Somoto's parents were killed as a result. I thus deduce that your uncle, who went into hiding after faking his own demise, was assisted in his endeavors by the late Ms. Morray, who later contacted him on the eve of her death to ask him to assist my brother on his crusade against the Black Lotus. At some point, you were made aware of these events, and were asked to assist my brother once he arrived in London."

Nina smiled. "Exactly! Didn't have much of a choice, though. He was appointed as the new _Raven_ after Ms. Morray's death, so technically he is the figurehead of his own secret web! Ironic, isn't it?"

"And after that unfortunate incident with the Slasher, my brother was forced to include others into his conspiracy. Namely the Sherlockians, who, with the assistance of Mr. Lawrence Duncan, who is a first-year medical student, was able to treat his injuries." Mycroft deduced.

"Right!" Nina said. "We didn't know that you had gotten control of the CCTV system back, so we couldn't call anyone else! The risks were too great!"

Skylar frowned as realization hit her. "Earlier, Chase said he was working with _Chimera_…and Sherlock heard that! He _knew_ you had his daughter, but he sent us out to look for her anyway!"

"For the same reasons that he decided not to come to us, Ms. Simmons. To protect you. Sherlock deduced that if you were all engaged in a furtive search for Sheridan, you would not follow him to his confrontation with Moriarty and thus put yourselves at risk." Mycroft said mildly.

"And the risks he is taking now isn't worth worrying about?!" Lestrade complained. "Bloody hell, Sherlock is just waltzing around London, and all we know is that Moriarty's hideout has to do with three numbers that don't match anything!"

John frowned. _Three numbers that don't match anything? _

Hardly! They _obviously_ meant something to Sherlock. He must have already figured it out.

After all, wasn't he the one who finally cracked the code on Irene's cell phone, or deduced that her safe combination matched her measurements…

"Measurements." John said dully.

_Three numbers. Three sixes, with the middle one slightly higher than the other two, in the shape of a triangle…_

_Sheri's voice. "We were reviewing my history lesson, and I was talking about the pyramids in Egypt when Dad suddenly wasn't paying attention anymore."_

"John?" Lestrade said, looking at the doctor, completely bewildered by John's odd word choice.

"_That's_ what Sherlock meant!" John whispered, ignoring the others and looking straight at Mycroft. "Mycroft, I've figured it out! _The three numbers!_ They represent a _triangle!_ Not an address! Remember when Sheri said that Sherlock got quiet after they were talking about Egypt…"

"And they were discussing the pyramids!" Mycroft realized, his normally jaded expression momentarily alight with grudging amazement. "Of course! Moriarty's hideout has nothing to do with numbers. It has to do with a symbol for an equilateral triangle. Or, to be more precise, a pyramid!"

"_What?!"_ Lestrade gaped.

"John has figured it out, Lestrade!" Mycroft said, quickly standing up. "Sherlock, and now John, has figured out the code! Now we can deduce where Moriarty may be hiding."

Quickly, Mycroft turned to his private assistant. "Melissa, please contact Mr. Douglas and my niece! Right away! Tell them to run a cross reference check on all of Moriarty's known associates and anything to do with a pyramid!"

"Yes, Sir!" Not-Anthea said, already typing away on her Black Berry.

"Perhaps we need to bring Sheridan to the Met, to see if she remembers anything else to narrow the search." Lestrade suggested.

"I refuse to endanger my niece, Detective Inspector!" Mycroft practically growled at Lestrade. "Moriarty only needs to get his hands on her and use her as a hostage against my brother and me! I refuse to permit it under any circumstances!"

"Well, right now, that child may be our only chance to finding Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, standing up from his chair. "After all, she already knew the identities of the three snipers, and was able to unlock Moriarty's code in less than an hour, which is better than all of your people put together!"

"It's too much of a risk!" John argued, feeling that as the "Honorary Uncle," his voice should be heard on this. "The Met is too open, with too many people coming in and out! Moriarty's people, if there are any left, could abduct her!"

"What about Whitehall?"

Everyone in the room turned to look at Not-Anthea, who glanced up from her Black Berry. Not-Anthea caught everyone staring at her and spoke again, this time in a non-committable voice, sounding almost apologetic for speaking up. "If we moved our security detail to our offices in Whitehall, then it is very unlikely Moriarty will be able to penetrate its defenses. We have security cards, retina scans, fingerprint analysis, facial-camera recognition, and other such measures that will make entry for a non-authorized person extremely unlikely."

Mycroft paused, considering. "Very well. Have the head of the security team bring my niece there. Upgrade her security status, and make sure that all measures are in place to arrange her transportation there."

"So, now we are going Whitehall?" John asked.

"Only a select few of us. You both will go with me as well, as you are still primary targets." Mycroft replied evenly. "If we must stay in London, then my offices are perhaps the safest place you can be."

"But what about my team?" Lestrade asked. "What if Moriarty decides to plant a bomb at the Met?!"

"If he did, then my brother probably already has deduced this possibility and has taken measures to ensure it doesn't happen." Mycroft said confidently.

"Well, I can't afford to take that chance!" Lestrade protested angrily.

"Would you announce to the Metropolitan Police Force that you suspect that a previously considered deceased psychopath may be planting an incendiary device somewhere in this building? Without any evidence to support your claims?" Mycroft observed.

"So what do we do?" Lestrade shot back.

"Rufus Burhl is waiting at Whitehall for someone to speak with him regarding the incident that happened earlier. I must go to him and explain the situation. It would be beneficial if a member of the New Scotland Yard was there in an official capacity, in case their assistance is needed." Mycroft said. "Now that all three assassins have been neutralized, I see no reason to hide my brother's existence from the Metropolitan Police Department. Their assistance may be of some value at this late stage."

Lestrade paused, then nodded in agreement. "I'll leave Hopkins in charge here. He seems to get along well with Chief Superintendent Maxwell, and he would probably be the best one to break the news to him. Give me a few minutes, then I'll be ready to go."

* * *

Sherlock walked through the dilapidated building that once housed the Pyramid Storage Headquarters. The first building that was ever opened using that name.

_Just like Carl Powers was Moriarty's first victim._ Sherlock thought sourly.

It was just a few minutes till midnight. And soon Moriarty will arrive, eager to put his little "plan" into action.

In just a few minutes, it will all be over.

He had taken Moriarty's guards by surprise. They were woefully inept. _Ridiculously so._ A few blows, a few well-placed punches, and they were unconscious. Afterwards, Sherlock drug them to the neighboring building across the street and tied them up to prevent them from escaping.

He _could_ have killed them, of course. Logically, that's exactly what he should have done. There was always a chance, small though it may be, that they would get loose and assist Moriarty.

But Sherlock was not a murderer.

_Not yet, at least._

His decision not to kill the "specialist" Moriarty had brought in was an even harder decision, but for a completely different reason. The man was in his fifties, barely five feet tall, with balding hair slicked back with cheap hair gel and bulging grey-green eyes that reminded Sherlock of sickness. The man was wearing non-descript shirt and trousers under a pristine white lab coat.

The man was no threat to him, obviously.

But when Sherlock found him on the top floor, preparing his surgical equipment, with one table laid out and prepared with child-sized restraints (meant for little Claudette Bruhl), he nearly lost his legendary detachment and almost killed the man, but refrained at the last possible second, choosing instead to sneak up behind him and knock him unconscious.

Why did such sights trigger such an illogical reaction from him now, when the same sight, a few years ago, would have outraged him, but _never_ to the fever-pitch of hatred he felt boiling in his chest now?

Why did the thought of little Claudette Bruhl, tugging helplessly at the restraints as she screamed, fill him with barely-contained rage?

He tried to imagine the scene, once. Just to understand the madness behind Moriarty's strategy that caused him to see logic in tormenting an eight year old girl. But the image changed, and the girl on the table was not Claudette Bruhl, but another child. A familiar one with black curly hair and moonlight eyes, her mouth opened with a soundless scream…

Sherlock gritted him teeth and barely suppressed the urge to punch out a nearby window.

Now he could understand something of Donovan's glee when she showed up that night all those months ago, her face filled with grim joy as they slapped the cuffs around his wrists. Because, despite their open hostility for each other, Sherlock could admit to himself that Donovan was partially motivated because she truly believed he had something to do with the kidnappings.

She was an idiot, of course. And she was being irrational, as usual.

_Typical, stupid Yarder!_

But Sherlock could now understand where Donovan was coming from. If he believed, even mistakenly (which was highly unlikely, but always possible) that Donovan had hurt a child, or had hurt _Sheri_, then he would spare no means to track her down and throw her in prison.

So, idiotic as she was, he could not hold Donovan responsible for what happened. There was only one person who would pay for that awful day at Saint Bartholomew's hospital.

_Just one._

* * *

Downstairs, everything was prepared. The message, the invitation, everything. And Sherlock was certain that everything was as it should be. He had checked for hidden cameras and caches of weapons. He made sure all the windows and doors were locked except for the front entrance.

There was only one way in or out, and Moriarty would either leave defeated or as a corpse.

Maybe both, if he threatened John. Or Sheridan. Or anyone else, if Sherlock was so inclined.

Bloody hell, at the way he was feeling, he might take Moriarty out if he threatened _Anderson! _Not because he particularly cared about Anderson, of course!

But if he needed an excuse to tear Moriarty apart into microscopic pieces, then he would take it.

The only thing that concerned Sherlock was that loose manhole cover that he had tripped over downstairs. His plan was to make sure that no means of escape was available to Moriarty. It was an intricate part of his plan, and any loop hole for Moriarty to escape from meant death to John, Sheridan, and anyone else Sherlock cared about.

He hid the manhole under a dirty blue tarp he found lying around, hoping that Moriarty had never noticed it before, even though it was obvious he had traveled here many times (shown by the faint scent of Moriarty's unique cologne that reeked and burnt Sherlock's nostrils, as well as the stray fibers hung on a nail upstairs that belonged to a high-cost suit).

He could only hope that Moriarty, being the arrogant and pompous bastard that he was, failed to grasp the significance of the manhole.

_I have to go through with this, regardless. If he tries to escape, then I'll kill him. I don't have any other choice. His escape means death to all of those I care about. _

Especially Sheridan. She has never had a life outside Moriarty's shadow. If he succeeded, then she will be safe.

And John, too. His best friend. Maybe the _only_ person who considered Sherlock to be a friend. For his sake, he couldn't falter.

* * *

Sherlock scowled as he recalled the events that had transpired since his awakening at the safehouse. Twice, he had tried to leave. The first time, he felt so dizzy that he almost passed out.

The second time he tried, once Skylar's back was turned, he took a few steps to the door, and then he did pass out.

He woke up on the floor several hours later, covered with the duvet again, as Skylar wasn't strong enough to lift him back on the couch, but nevertheless did what she could to make him comfortable.

Angered by the entire situation, and frustrated that his transport had betrayed him (again), he nevertheless made no further attempts to leave.

The next morning, Nina had returned with the package, as promised, as well as news that a situation happened at Baker Street.

Nina was passing by, on her way back from Paddington Station, when she spotted the crowds hovering in front of 221 Baker Street. She stuck around and learned that Moran had attacked John earlier, but was captured. She couldn't find out any news on John's status.

Sherlock was understandably unnerved by this unexpected turn of events. After Ms. Morstan was rescued from the Slasher, he had assumed that Moriarty would give up his plans to frame John, but it appeared that the once brilliant consulting criminal was becoming more unhinged by the hour, and thus was becoming very unpredictable.

Moments after Nina had related the news, Lawrence and Kenneth returned to the safehouse. While they had failed to find Sheridan, they had also learned about the events at Baker Street, and reported that according to the news reports they had seen on the telly, John was uninjured.

However, the news caused Sherlock to almost race out of the safe house, just to see for himself. But such a move would risk John's safety, and he knew it. For several hours, he argued with the Sherlockians as they all tried unsuccessfully to figure out how to verify John's safety without posing a risk to him or Sherlock.

Finally, as a compromise, Sherlock cajoled Skylar to call her friend Chase on her secured phone (given to her by Mycroft, in case of emergencies) and ask him about details from the event.

When Skylar called, Chase was surprisingly jubilant. He told Skylar he couldn't go into details just yet, because "the DMP will kill me if I do!" However, he was able to answer Skylar's questions and assure her that John was uninjured, and was currently with Mycroft at the hospital to help interrogate Moran about Moriarty's location.

"I've got to go, Sky! Believe it or not, I got _Chimera_ with me! The famous hacker I told you about! And we are doing something important! No details yet, though! I'll fill you in later! Promise!" Chase had said excitedly before hanging up.

Skylar was so puzzled by Chase's explanation that she missed Sherlock's face relax for a second, as though relieved from a tremendous strain, before he managed to filter out his facial expression and assume the emotionless persona he so often presented to the world.

Outwardly, Sherlock was impassive, controlled, and cool as ever.

Inwardly, he was elated.

_So Sheridan found Mycroft! Somehow she found her way to the Diogenes Club, even without directions! She's safe! _

_Mycroft will take care of her, and he won't tell the others about me if he somehow learned I am alive! He wouldn't dare do so and risk getting them involved! _

_And John! John was safe too! And he somehow managed to take out Moran! I don't think I will ever underestimate his combat abilities again! _

Despite his knowledge that Sheridan was with his brother (as he had never revealed to the Sherlockians, or even Nina, that Sheridan was the _Chimera_), Sherlock chose to remain silent and asked the Sherlockians to continue their search for the little girl. He anticipated that they might try to help him take down Moriarty, and he needed an excuse to keep them out of it. So a mission, even one that was based on a lie, was needed to keep them safe, too.

He would rather have them disillusioned with him than dead trying to assist him, in any case. After the efforts they took to clear his name, they deserved that much.

* * *

Sherlock finally reached the top floor after doing a final check around the building for any other threats, relieved that the stairs, worn away in several places, still managed to hold his weight.

The top room was ready. Before, he has removed the surgical instruments, so Moriarty would not have access to a weapon to stab him with. However, the surgical table, complete with the child restraints, was still there. It was a reminder to Sherlock of how Moriarty was planning to kidnap the Bruhl girl, kill her, and frame John for the crime.

Even after he had failed to capture John, the fact that Moriarty still sent a few of his men to kidnap a small girl and do who-knows-what to her showed just how far Moriarty had slipped into insanity.

_Why go after the girl now? After John beat Moran, there is no way that Moriarty could have framed him for the crime! Did he have someone else in mind now? A new victim to pin the crime on, or has he lost his sense of reality completely?_

Nothing about Moriarty made sense. Not anymore. After he was fooled into believing that Dani was after him, he no longer relied on his intelligence. He became a beast in every definition of the word. A mindless, vicious animal with no other motive except to destroy.

_How would he react when he found out that Sherlock was alive, assuming he didn't know already?_

Calmly, he squatted in a dark corner, placing his two fingers together and closed his eyes. To an outside observer, he looked almost as if he was thinking really hard, or praying.

Sherlock wasn't doing either of those things. Instead, he was remembering.

* * *

_It was another abandoned building, not too far from the one he is in now. But it is not separated from distance so much as it was separated by time._

_ In his memory, a lonely woman gazes out of the broken window, her red hair blowing slightly in the wind as she peered out into the storm._

_ "Jimmy will stop at nothing, Sherlock." Danielle said with trepidation. "He enjoys causing misery for others. His favorite thing to do is to break people. To put them in impossible situations where he always emerges as the victor. In many ways, it's like cocaine to him. It gives him a high."_

_ "And yet you still resist him." A younger and more callous Sherlock noted._

_ "Because I must!" Danielle replied. "I may not win, but I won't make it easy for him! He wins by killing me or by forcing me to work for him." Danielle said, her tone edged with steel._

_ "How do you win against someone like him, then?" Sherlock replied calmly._

_ Danielle paused before turning back to Sherlock. "For me, the only victory I see is by dying without him being the cause! I have always known he would outlive me, you see. I have always felt it! Here!" Danielle finished, pointing to her own heart._

_ Sherlock scoffed. There was no imperical evidence to show the validity of "woman's intuition" or so-called psychic abilities! Danielle ignored him and continued._

_ "As far as I am concerned, very few people have a chance at beating him. You might, perhaps. For the same reason that I would lose, in the end."_

_ "What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked irritably. In truth, he hadn't had a hit in a while, and it was taxing on his nerves._

_ "You are able to separate from your emotions completely. And that's important. You see, Jimmy is like me. He can feel what is important to someone, and use that against the person. But if you can't feel, then Jimmy will have a hard time defeating you, or even detecting your presence. Also, you are smart enough, I think, to beat him."_

_ "So I just need to be a smart and unfeeling sociopath? Good!" Sherlock muttered._

_ "But you're not a sociopath!" Danielle argued. "Believe me, I can tell!"_

_ "So I can't defeat your brother, even if I cared to." Sherlock waved his arm, dismissing Danielle's remark._

_ Danielle pursed her lips together. "I didn't say that one need never feel emotions in order to beat Jimmy. I simply meant that one had to block all of his emotions when he was near Jimmy. And you are able to do that!"_

_ "And why is that so important?" Sherlock drawled._

_ "Believe me, if I find you interesting, imagine what my brother will feel if he were ever to meet you!" Danielle said flatly, clearly annoyed by his resistance to take her seriously. "He would want to break you, eventually, by killing you or forcing you to join him."_

_ "I don't see how!" Sherlock scoffed. "I don't care about anything! Or anyone!"_

_ "Then you are already broken." Danielle whispered, almost to herself._

_ The two sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments before Sherlock decided to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "So, hypothetically, how would I beat him?"_

_ "The only way you could." Danielle said, looking back towards the window. "By playing Moriarty's game and using his own tactics against him."_

* * *

Danielle, as it turned out, was right. When Sherlock took on the persona of the _Raven_, he pushed away his old personality as much as possible, becoming a blank slate. That way, he could put himself in the figurative shoes of Moriarty.

Danielle's plan was simple. Once she realized that her time was up, and that she couldn't go after Moriarty on her own, she devised a plan for someone to pretend to be her, to act in her name, and to aggressively take out Moriarty's empire. All she was waiting for was the right person to come along that had a chance to succeed.

That person turned out to be him.

Danielle, the poor freak that she was (despite what she said before, Sherlock would never think of her as a _monster_), understood her brother well. She knew that she was the one person that James feared over the years, because she always managed to keep one step ahead of him. She knew that if Moriarty believed that she was going after his empire, he would lose his fragile control, because of his intense hatred towards her.

Sherlock saw merit in the plan for other reasons. If Moriarty thought that Danielle was still alive, and was going after him, he would never suspect Sherlock. And thus, Moriarty had no reason to go after those Sherlock "died" to protect.

Of course, he didn't expect Moriarty to unrival to the extent that he did, nor did he anticipate that Moriarty would become so unhinged that he would go on a "revenge" plot to punish those that he considered responsible for Sherlock's death.

He had only barely managed to figure it out in time to do what he could to stop the attack on Ms. Morstan, and even then, John was attacked.

Had John not been able to have protected himself from Moran, Sherlock doubted he would ever forgive himself.

And Danielle was right about another thing as well. His ability to block out all of his emotions, which made Danielle interested in him in the first place, acted as a talisman of sorts against Moriarty. When Moriarty arrived to this place, he would use his so-called "intuitive feeling" and try to pinpoint Danielle's location inside the building.

That was what Dani meant, all those years ago, when she said that she could never defeat her brother. The very thing that allowed her to stay away from her brother was the one thing that hindered her in a face-to-face confrontation.

Using his own intuitive feeling, Moriarty would use Danielle's feelings against her, and outwit her in a final battle.

But Sherlock, with his unique ability to block out his own emotions (a feat that he, Sheridan, and possibly Mycroft possessed), would be immune to Moriarty's efforts.

Sherlock knew this from the beginning, which was why he couldn't involve anyone else in this final game with Moriarty. First, Moriarty would have been able to have sensed anyone else nearby, making stealth virtually impossible. Second, Moriarty would play on the person's emotions, and cause them to lose focus, resulting in their probable capture or demise.

And finally, if he was honest with himself, he was not willing to risk anyone else dying in Moriarty's twisted games.

Far too many people had died already, and Sherlock didn't want any more blood on his hands or any more guilt than what he already was dealing with.

He wished he could feel excitement about what was coming. This was supposed to be the moment, right? When Moriarty saw that he had irrevocatively lost?

Usually, just before the conclusion of a case, Sherlock was thrilled, with his heart pumping full of adreniline and his brain relishing in his own brilliance as he watched, over and over again, the noose closing tighter around his prey.

But the last year of pretending to be someone else, to get into Danielle's mind, and then Moriarty's, had left him mentally drained, more so than he had felt on any other case.

He felt that he probably knew the Morray siblings better than he knew himself now. In the process of defeating Moriarty, he was at serious risk of losing who he once was.

How far into the darkness can one go before they are unable to ever find the light again?

_I can't afford to loose my focus now._ Sherlock thought. _Sentiment is a chemical for the losing side. A weakness. I can't afford to be weak now. I must close myself off, become nothing but logic. Any emotions I feel will allow Moriarty to defeat me._

_I cannot afford to think of anything else now. My one goal is to get Moriarty. Nothing else matters._

And so Sherlock waited for his appointment to arrive, promptly ignoring the violent tremblings of emotion buried deep within his soul and preparing for the spider to arrive.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So Sherlock thinks he has everything worked out. The Bruhl girl is safe, and his trap is prepared.

But even the great Sherlock can make faulty deductions. Things have changed alot since he was gone. I don't think he believed that Mycroft would decide to be more open to sharing information with his co-conspirators (John, the Yarders, and the Sherlockians). He meant for _Mycroft_ to know he was alive, as he sent Ms. Atkins to tell Ophelia so that she could tell Mycroft. But I think he planned for both of them to remain silent about that information

However, I don't think he took into account just how strong people's emotions can get. Mycroft and Mummy are no longer the same people they once were. The supposed loss of Sherlock has caused them to reach out and form closer bonds with Sherlock's friends. Would Mycroft have kept it a secret that Sherlock was alive? Maybe he would have. Or maybe not.

We will never know, because the choice was taken out of Mycroft's hands a long time ago. First, Ophelia was not afraid to tell Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was alive, and I am sure she would have probably went to all of Sherlock's friends and enlisted their help, had they not been informed already.

Second, Sherlock underestimated Sheridan's emotional attachment to him, so much so that he failed to anticipate that she would break her promise and tell on him.

Hopefully, he won't be too mad at her. Remember, he doesn't know yet that Sheridan was the one who stopped Moran, not John.

Sherlock, never underestimate the love of a mother to a son, or a daughter to her father! If you are crazy enough to believe that they can sit back and be logical while you are missing, then you have many things to learn about people!

Well, Moriarty still doesn't know what's in store for him! I wonder what he's up to...

**Disclaimer: ** I don't own "Sherlock." Or Moriarty (thank God!) However, I am tired of them _stealing_ from me! First, Sherlock ran off with my bedsheet (which he hasn't returned), and now _this!_

**Peaceful Defender**-What are _you_ doing here!? Get out!

**James Moriarty **(smiling manically)-Hello, _darling!_ Did you get my birthday gifts I sent to you?

**Peaceful Defender**-Which one? The dead _roadkill_ I found in my bed this morning? Or the bomb you planted in my car, which I managed to disarm, but it still caused me to be late for court?!

**James Moriarty**-Don't forget the birthday card...

**Peaceful Defender**-You mean the one where you wrote "_Roses are red, Violets are blue, Death is my specialty, and I.O.U._"? Besides the fact that it was disturbing in the worst degree imaginable...

**James Moriarty**-I'm _so_ changable! One minute, I want to kill you, and the next I see us being together!

**Peaceful Defender**-_Ok_, now you just caused my insomnia to return!

**James Moriarty**-Why? Afraid I may kill you?

**Peaceful Defender**-Considering the alternative, I prefer if you _did_ kill me!

**James Moriarty**-Well, I need to consider it. You see, I need to go meet my nemesis, and I wanted to wish you a fond farewell, until we see each other again! Oh, and I may have _borrowed_ something of yours. As a token, from a lady to her knight...

**Peaceful Defender** (gaping)-Is that my _underwear!?_ Did you just rummage through my underwear drawer and _steal_ my bra!?

**James Moriarty**-Well, I had to try them on, to see which one looked best on me! Ta, darling! (Runs out of front door)

**Peaceful Defender** (Screams)-_Now I will have to burn everything he touched!_ Ugh! I feel _sick! _ And I'll have to buy new clothes too! (Runs to the door and yells) YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS, MORIARTY! YOU (bleep, bleep, bleep)! YOU JUST _WAIT! _


	27. Chapter 26

**Warning: Mentions of violence, animal abuse, and torture.**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Six: The Trap**

"The best way of keeping a secret is to pretend there isn't one." Margaret Atwood

* * *

If the safe house gave John the feeling of Old-World luxury, then the offices at Whitehall made him feel like he was in a James Bond film.

Not-Anthea was right in her analysis. There was security checks, retina scans, fingerprint analysis, and even a DNA comparison which surprisingly only took less than an hour to complete.

John found all of this level of clearance a bit disturbing. He would have thought Mycroft's word alone would have been enough, but apparently even the British Government had to comply with certain procedures before he was allowed into the building.

Mycroft went through these security checks quickly, as though they were expected. Thus, he didn't ask any questions and got through more quickly than the other two men did.

So when John finally met Mycroft, he was looking over a green folder, handed to him by a gentleman in a white lab coat. At the sound of John and Lestrade's entry, Mycroft turn towards them with a benign expression.

"It turns out that Ms. Morstan was correct after all. I have just received the DNA test results that the Metropolitan Police graciously turned over to us for testing. There is no doubt about it. The mysterious vigilante who came to the young woman's aid was my brother."

"So we _are_ certain?" Lestrade asked. "I mean, is it possible the results could have been faked?"

"Unless someone somehow faked my DNA results as well, then the answer is no." Mycroft answered. "Not only did we use Sherlock's DNA, which we have on file, but we also used mine as a control. I also had it compared to Sheridan's for further confirmation." Mycroft explained in a rather bored manner

"How did you get Sheridan's DNA?" John asked.

"Melissa was kind enough to procure a sample while Sheridan was with her. For security reasons, you understand. There was never any doubt that she is Sherlock's daughter, of course. Besides the fact that they look so similar, she already demonstrated that she knew too much about recent events for her to be an imposter. So the DNA was procured so that it may be properly categorized for her future security. Should she ever be abducted in the future, her sample may become a valuable tool for purposes of the investigation." Mycroft explained.

John shuddered as he pondered this new development. _So now poor Sheri will have to spend the rest of her life constantly looking over her shoulder?_

Mycroft saw John's stricken look and smiled. "John, this is merely a precaution. The Government likes to protect its own, nothing more. This is no different than what parents do for their children to secure their safety."

"Since when do parents make sure their children's DNA are on a government database?" John asked incredulously. "Are you planning on getting her fingerprints while you are at it?"

"Oh, of course. Thank you for reminding me, John. I will inform Melissa." Mycroft said, serendipitously texting something on his phone.

Lestrade reached for the green file Mycroft was holding and gently took it from him to glance at its contents. "So they are certain, then? That the unidentified blood at the crime scene belonged to Sherlock?"

"Correct, Inspector." Mycroft replied as he finished sending his instructions to Not-Anthea.

"Of course." Lestrade grumbled unhappily. "So he fakes his death, leaves, and then comes back here just to try to get himself _killed_ again! Remind me to arrest him when we find him!"

"So things haven't changed that much, have they, Greg?" John replied.

"No! In fact, things are back to the way they were! Sherlock is on some lead, probably getting himself killed, while we chase behind him! And he calls _us_ idiots!" Lestrade muttered, irritation lining his features.

"We will see if his claims are justified, but only if we can locate where Moriarty is hiding." Mycroft affirmed, his dark blue eyes narrowed in thought. "We are still running a cross-reference check to see if a connection with the word 'Pyramid' is related to any of Moriarty's associates."

"Shouldn't we be a bit more thorough than that?" Lestrade asked. "Maybe we should run a comparison to Moriarty's known victims too, just in case. Moriarty seems to be too careful to pick something used or related to one of his employees."

Mycroft looked at Lestrade with a calculating expression. Finally, he spoke. "That is an innovative thought, Detective Inspector. I will see to it that we include Moriarty's victims as a search perimeter as well."

* * *

James Moriarty was understandably furious.

After so much preparation, how could things be going so badly?

It all started on Halloween night, when he saw the news reports of the glowing messages on the walls of several abandoned buildings throughout London.

_Jimmy__ Moriarty__, __má__seasann__tú ar__imirt cluichí__, __Ansin, ní mór__duit a bheith__ann__a chríochnú__Them__._ Or, translated to English, _Jimmy Moriarty, if you insist on playing games, then you need to be able to finish them._

He knew, without even needing to see them, that they were written by the Raven.

Moriarty gnashed his teeth and pounded the tanned leather of the car seat in frustration.

"Are you alright, Sir?" Asked the flunky assigned to drive him around.

"Shut your fucking mouth and get going!" Moriarty hissed, his black eyes almost rolling in his skull from the rage he was fighting so desperately to control.

The man flinched, but obediently kept his eyes glued to the road as he continued through the maze making up London's side roads and back alleys.

Moriarty stared forward, doing his best to calm down. _Am I not James Moriarty, the leader of the greatest criminal empire the world has ever seen? Have I not outwitted the smartest men alive, helped topple some of the most powerful and influential world leaders?_

_So why should one simple, whimpering woman give me so much trouble?_

The answer came quickly to his head, even though he really wasn't looking for an answer.

_Because she knows how you think._

Unbidden, images came forward and assaulted his memory. He tried desperately to lock them away, to put them in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind so that he could concentrate on the problem at hand, but the memories, freed after so long, refused to give him a respite.

_Dani, four years old, her red hair in pigtails as she hunched over the broken body of her puppy, bawling loudly. Her golden-brown eyes looked at Moriarty with hurt and grief as she mutely asked what she did that caused him to kill her beloved pet…_

_Dani, slightly older, as she raced over across the playground and threw herself in front of her brother, shielding his intended victim. "Jimmy, please! He wasn't hurting you!"_

_Dani again, her red hair plaited, her body just starting to go through the changes that initiated the beginnings of womanhood. Always graceful, even at that tender age, she stands in a dark room that smelled suspiciously of chlorine. A few damp towels are on the floor. "Tell me the truth, James! Did you kill that boy?!"_

_Danielle again, leaning over a computer. Not even out of school yet, and already her talents are being lauded and utilized by the family to expand their criminal activities. Her eyes are troubled, and occasionally she steals a glance at her brother. Her face is grim, suspicious. He doesn't think she has ever looked at him with any hint of affection since Carl Powers' murder._

_Danielle, older still, and glaring furiously at Moriarty. She points accusingly at him and speaks to someone that Moriarty knows is listening in the background. "You think you have everyone fooled! But I know you! You won't be happy until we are all dead!"_

_Danielle later, but on a surveillance camera. Wearing her trademark leather jacket that their father had given to her years ago. She sinks to her knees in the snow, tears coursing down her face as she watches the building burn. Her mouth opens and closes periodically, and Moriarty knows she is screaming out the names of the family members killed in Moriarty's little coup de grad. Then she looks around, and sees the video camera poised on her._

_Her twisted expression of hatred is the last time he ever saw her._

_What does she look like now?_ Moriarty absently wondered. When he heard that she had died, over a year ago, he felt giddy with excitement. Even though he was, admittedly, a little rueful that he had not killed her, as he originally had sworn to do, he had to admit that he was elated about the news of her death.

He imagined her, red hair falling out in chunks, her skin stretched over her bones, and her defeated expression as she took her last breath.

He imagined her anguish as she died, knowing that nothing stood in the way of Moriarty coming to claim her daughter.

Yes, he knew that Dani mothered a child. Whoever the father was didn't matter, as far as Moriarty was concerned.

_The whore probably opened her legs up at the first opportunity!_ Moriarty thought vindictively. The Dani he knew was normally bubbly and outgoing, with the ability to charm people merely with the force of her words. Yet she wasn't a tease, as far as Moriarty knew.

Still, that was _before_ he was forced to dispose of the rest of the family, in order to consolidate his claim and start building his empire.

He had never seen the child, of course. Danielle was far too clever for that! But he knew she existed. So immediately after news reached him from one of his sources that Danielle died in Savannah, Georgia, a search was launched to find the girl.

It took the debacle that occurred with the Black Lotus for him to see the truth.

He had to give his sister credit, of course. To fake her death, then go after his empire? Very devious, he will admit. Especially for someone usually as straight-forward as she was.

And when his henchmen returned and reported that her coffin was empty? Well, he had a good laugh! Poor Sebastian looked at him as though he thought he had lost his mind.

_Maybe I did._

Finally, after his empire crumpled to the brink of extinction, Danielle announced her presence in London via those glowing messages. And ever since her arrival, all of his plans had fallen apart.

She had done what she had promised. She had made him watch as his beloved web was torn, strand by strand, while he, the spider, stood by helplessly. He sent his minions to seek her out, to hunt her down, but they were always too late. Through the use of her own gift, she had always skillfully avoided them.

There was a traitor in their midst. And he has yet to figure out who it was. He had weeded out the lesser employees, had even tortured and killed some to see if someone, _anyone_, could tell him who it was who was giving his greatest secrets to his sister.

And despite his best intentions, his actions only succeeded in the further unraveling of his beloved empire.

Sebastian was the only one he was certain of. The man was loyal, comparable only to the dedication shown by Sherlock's own little pet. He knew Sebastian wouldn't betray him.

But the others? He didn't doubt _they_ would betray him, if they were not so scared that he would hunt them down if they tried.

And now Sebastian, the one who kept order within the ranks, was gone. Captured during his raid to go after John Watson. Details were impossible to come by, but he suspected that Danielle somehow had a hand in it.

With his contacts in the British Government rooted out, there was no way to know if Sebastian was still alive, much less what condition he was in.

And then, this afternoon, he learned that he no longer had control of the CCTV system. He had one of his hired associates with a gift for hacking to check the system, hoping to find Sebastian via the CCTV system. However, the access port was blocked, and all the screens were blank.

Thus, he had no idea if Harper or Baxley had succeeded or failed in their missions.

_No doubt fat Mycroft is having a fine laugh at his expense, right about now!_

So now he had confirmation that Danielle was exchanging information with the powerful British Government. Perhaps he should not have made his password so easy to break, but he _had _to know that Danielle was involved. The use of her secret nickname seemed highly appropriate.

Except that now, his sister, whom he called "_Cassandra_" in his childhood because no one believed her when she tried to tell them about what he was, had somehow transformed herself into her computer name of "_Delphi_", the revered oracle whom everyone listened to and followed.

Even members of the British Government.

But something about this whole business bothered him. Danielle made no attempt to hide the fact that it was she who was behind the destruction of his web. The written messages, the witty comments, the fact that she had even signed her handiwork with her own name!

The Raven.

_Seriously?_

The Thieving Magpie was _much _more original, in his opinion!

But it seemed as though the information was too easy to decipher. Almost as though he was being lead to this inevitable conclusion…

But it made no sense! Danielle was the only one who could be behind all of this! Who else could know everything about his network? Who else would have the brains and the resources to take him down? And who else would leave those ridiculous quotes behind?

So it could _only_ be Dani!

But London could not hold the both of them for much longer. Sooner or later, they would be drawn to each other, with the same fervor as the hatred they had for one another. It was only a matter of time.

And somehow, he would find her and make her pay!

* * *

Claudette Bruhl looked around the room in apprehension. Not too far away, her father was in the midst of a quiet but tense conversation with an intimidating man with dark hair and a nice suit. One of those politician types that Daddy dealt with all the time.

"I believe I had the right to know if that bastard is still alive, Mr. Holmes!" Rufus Bruhl spoke low, but angrily.

"No one could know Moriarty was alive, Rufus. Had word gotten out and heard by the wrong people, consequences could have resulted that were sure to threaten the security of the country."

"Are you telling me my children aren't consideration enough?!" Mr. Bruhl asked heatedly. "How long have you known that Claudette was being targeted?"

"_I _did not know. At least, not until after the abduction attempt took place…"

Claudette wanted to huddle up in her chair and disappear into the leather. From what she could pick out, it seemed that the bad man who kidnapped her was still alive, and tried to kidnap her again tonight.

Had that nice fireman not come along, the kidnapper would have snatched her! Probably taken her back to the dark room, worn someone else's face, and made her watch someone get sick again…

The door to the room suddenly opened, and someone came in. A girl about her own age, with black, curly hair, holding an I-Pod.

"Uncle Mycroft?" The girl said expectantly.

The man that Daddy was arguing with looked back at her. "Yes, my dear?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I found out something. Greg was right. We found a connection to Moriarty. It has to do with his first victim! Carl Powers! His uncle once owned a storage business located here in London. It was called 'Pyramid Storage.'"

Claudette was impressed despite herself. This little girl didn't seem afraid at all, as if dealing with scary grown-ups was something she did every day.

"Excellent, my dear! Well done!" Mycroft affirmed, then looked over at the flustered man beside him. "Sheridan, let me introduce you to Mr. Rufus Bruhl. He is our ambassador to America. Rufus, this is my niece, Sheridan."

"How do you do, Mr. Bruhl?" Sheridan said graciously.

"I'm well, thank you." Mr. Bruhl replied, softening slightly.

Sheridan glanced around the room until her eyes fell on Claudette. "And she is your daughter, right?"

Mr. Bruhl started, and then grimaced. Apparently, in his haste to take out his anger at _someone_, he had forgotten that his daughter was present. "Oh! I'm sorry! Yes, this is my daughter, Claudette."

Sheridan smiled and walked over to Claudette, offering her hand. "Hi! I'm Sheridan!"

"Claudette." Claudette mumbled feebly, feeling an irrational stab of jealousy that the girl in front of her was so at-ease with her surroundings while she wanted to melt into the background. But something else got her attention. "Are you American? You sound like it."

"I am." Sheridan replied easily. "Or, at least, I was born there, and I lived over there most of my life! Why? Have you been there?"

"A few times." Claudette admitted. "Once to Miami. And once to Boston."

"I was born in Boston!" Sheridan said, pleased to have made a connection. "I don't remember it, but my Mom said it was beautiful."

Claudette remained silent. She didn't want to offend this girl by telling her she found Boston to be dull. At least in Miami, she could swim in the ocean. And there were dolphins there!

In Boston, all she saw there was a bell!

The girl smiled. "You have a dog, too! A big one, with black and white fur! I always wanted a dog!"

Claudette looked at the girl with amazement. "How did you know about Brutus?"

"Look at your sleeve." Sheridan instructed, pointing to the girl's tanned jacket. "You have a few strands of black and white hair right here. But they are on the underside of your sleeve, suggesting you got them when you petted him. But the hairs are only located near your hand, so you had to reach up to pet him. If he was a smaller dog, there would be more dog hair on your sleeve in other places. What kind of dog is he?"

Claudette sat up straight in her chair, interested despite herself. "A Great Dane! But that thing you just did! That was _amazing!_ Are you a fortune teller? Can you see the future, too?"

Sheridan shook her head, but seemed amused at the suggestion. "Oh, I'm not a fortune teller! It's just something my Dad taught me to do."

"Who are your parents?" Mr. Bruhl asked from behind the two girls, who stopped their conversation to look at him. "Do they work for her Majesty's government?"

The man that Claudette now knew to be Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. "Sheridan is Sherlock's daughter, Rufus. My younger brother." Mycroft added significantly.

The change in Mr. Bruhl's face was instantaneous. It went from mild curiosity to an expression of absolute guilt. "_Oh._" He said significantly. "I'm sorry! I didn't know…"

"Your reaction is appreciated, but not necessary. Do you recall what you told me the last time we were in Parliament together, Rufus? About how you wished to apologize to my brother if you had the chance?" Mycroft suddenly interrupted.

"Yes?" Mr. Bruhl noted quietly. He seemed afraid to say too much in front of the black-haired girl in front of him. She didn't seem to know that _his_ daughter was the one who indirectly caused her father to jump off a building.

"Well, then this is truly a fortunate time for you, Rufus." Mycroft said, satisfaction evident even behind his jaded expression. "Because circumstances have unfolded in such a way that may allow you to do just that."

* * *

"We are here, Sir." His driver said quietly, coming to a stop in front of an old brick building. The black Cadillac came to a stop right in front of the building's entrance.

Moriarty vaguely heard the driver gasp in front of him, but he didn't care at this point. He needed a distraction from his recent losses.

He couldn't frame Johnny Boy, as much as he wanted to, for the child's abduction, as he had originally planned. So he was understandably frustrated with the day's events.

_Maybe hearing that girl's screams would soothe him, as it had done last time._

_That is, if his lazy employee would stop staring out and open the door for him!_

"Don't we have _somewhere_ to go, Felix?" Moriarty said, his voice deceptively polite.

Felix wordlessly pointed to the side of the building. Moriarty grunted and leaned forward to see why his driver suddenly looked as though he had seen a ghost.

The building looked the same as before. Old, crumbling, yet still structurally sound. One the faded and dirty bricks, words were painted up high, far above the reach of the hoodlums who liked to paint messages on walls.

"Pyramid Storage, Inc."

Underneath it, in smaller letters, was the company's motto.

"Where we store your treasures."

Below it, near the entrance, was the usual mix of graffiti that one would come to expect in this part of town. But a recent tag had been added. In bright yellow paint.

"_I'm waiting, Jimmy. Let's finish this. The Raven."_

Somewhere, Big Ben struck the midnight hour.

* * *

_November 4th. Eighteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

"Are we sure that this is right?" Lestrade asked insistently. He seemed to hate this pointless waiting and speculating.

It looked like Mycroft and his agents might indeed be forced to sedate him before the night was over with.

"I am certain, Lestrade. Sheridan had found it and brought it to my attention. The code was in reference to 'Pyramid Storage,' a private storage business, used by companies and private citizens alike, to store items and supplies. The business failed several years ago, and the various locations, all twenty-eight of them, if I recall, are located in various parts of London. I am certain that Moriarty is currently hiding in one of them." Mycroft replied.

"How do you know that Pyramid Storage is the correct business, though?" John asked, torn between awe and frustration that Mycroft seemingly knew which business it was before he even had a chance to research the internet yet to see if other businesses in London referenced a pyramid.

"Because, my dear Watson, Pyramid Storage was once owned by an entrepreneur by the name of 'Powers.'" Mycroft answered. Had he not filtered out his expression, one could almost visualize that he was being smug.

"Powers." John breathed. "You mean the same family of the boy that Moriarty killed at the pool all those years ago!"

"Correct, Doctor." Mycroft answered. He turned to Lestrade. "However, the business has twenty-eight buildings located in London. It will take time to narrow it down to the one where Moriarty is located at. I am sending my agents to several of these locations now."

"Well, good for you!" John said. "In the meantime, Greg and I will take the Yard and search the other buildings…"

"We need a warrant!" Lestrade protested.

"We don't need a warrant. I called the banking institution that currently has ownership of the business, and it was gracious enough to give its consent." Mycroft explained.

"How many of its members did you blackmail?" Lestrade muttered sarcastically.

"Only as many as I needed to assure that consent would be given." Mycroft answered easily.

"Well, then John and I will go to the Yard and organize a search of the other buildings, then. It's only a few minutes till midnight!" Lestrade replied.

"It would be prudent if you remained here, under my protection." Mycroft noted.

"That bloody idiot brother of yours decided to jump off a bloody building to save me, Mycroft!" Lestrade yelled. "He saved my life, and that was _after_ I abandoned him! Don't you _dare_ ask me to stand by and do nothing while he's out there!"

"And if you are injured or killed?" Mycroft asked.

"You're the damned British Government, aren't you?!" Lestrade screamed. "Give me some body guards if you must! Body armor! A tank! A damned battalion! _I don't care!_ He may be your brother, Mycroft, but _I _was the one who found him in that drug house all those years ago, and I was the one who helped him get clean! So he's _my_ responsibility too!"

"And mine!" John interjected. He spoke in a lower tone than Lestrade, but still injected enough of his military training into it to make himself sound authoritive. "_I_ left Sherlock that day! Back at Bart's! _I_ called him a machine! _I_ accused him of not being _human!"_

_"But it wasn't your fault!"_

The three men turned around to the source of the voice.

Sheridan was standing at the entrance of the room. Her face was paler than usual, and her eyes were narrowed angrily. Her little hands were clinched into tiny fists.

Had her expression not been so tortured, her defiant posture would have seemed almost funny.

"Sheridan." Mycroft's voice was soft, almost consoling. "It is not polite to eavesdrop on other people's conversations."

"_You_ do it all the time, Uncle Mycroft!" Sheridan shot back, before looking back at both Lestrade and John. "And if people don't want others to hear what they are saying, then they shouldn't be shouting!" Sheridan finished, stomping her foot at the end of her sentence to punctuate her point.

Lestrade ducked his head in embarrassment as he realized that _he_ was the one that Sheridan overheard. John, for his part, felt ashamed for another reason.

_Had Sherlock ever shared what John had said to him? If not, did she now hate John for insulting her father in such a callous way?_

"Now, you listen to me, all of you!" Sheridan insisted, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "You can argue all night about this, but it is utterly pointless! Dad doesn't blame any of you! Get that in your heads right now! Moriarty is to blame for all of this! Not _you_, Uncle Mycroft! Not _you_, Uncle John! And not _you_, Greg! Not even _me_, even though Moriarty is after me!"

Sheridan paused, catching her breath before continuing. "It wouldn't have mattered if you had personally broke him out of jail, Greg! Or if you told Dad he was your best friend, Uncle John! Or if you told Dad you loved him, Uncle Mycroft! The outcome still would have been the same! Dad _still_ would have jumped! And nothing was ever going to change that! He cares about you too much!"

"I sincerely doubt that, at least as it concerns me, my dear." Mycroft answered calmly. "I have failed your father many times, and he has made it abundantly clear that he despises me."

Sheridan shook her head. "If Dad despised you, then he would have called you, and then Moriarty's man would have killed you at some point! Why would he protect you if he hated you so much?"

Mycroft frowned, but proffered no argument.

Sheridan looked back at John and Lestrade. "You all need to disconnect from your guilt! It's irrational, and Moriarty will use it against you if he has the chance! I can feel it right now, so _he_ will be able to! You need to concentrate, and stop feeling guilty! _Because none of this is your fault!"_

John closed his eyes, doing his best to hold back tears. _Of course, how could he have forgotten?_

Hadn't Sheridan said earlier that she could sometimes pick up on what other people were feeling? So the sick knawing in the pit of his stomach was felt equally by Sheridan, just as if it was her own guilt?

"You're now helping, Uncle John." Sheridan said pointedly, giving him a knowing look.

"Sorry." John answered, taking a deep breath.

Sheridan was right. He needed to focus on finding Sherlock and not dwell on his emotions just yet.

Sheridan's intervention showed all the men one thing. If Sheridan was able to pick up their guilt, then Moriarty could do the same. And whereas Sheridan used her ability to get the three men to focus on the task at hand, Moriarty was sure to use the same ability to distract them from their goal.

And if Moriarty succeeded in that, they may fail to save Sherlock in time.

"That's better." Sheridan sighed with relief, satisfied that they were all on the same page again. "I don't like it when you feel bad. It makes _me_ feel bad. And we can't do that now." She looked back at Mycroft, who stood by, unreadable as ever. "So, what's the plan on finding Dad?"

* * *

Moriarty should have been terrified. Or at least on edge.

Somehow, Danielle had found him. She was inside, waiting for him to come in.

_Inviting him._

But he wasn't terrified. He was relieved. Almost exilerated, even.

_At last, Dani! At last! You finally decided to come face me, then? Well, little sister, don't you worry your pretty little head! _

_I'll be right up!_

Moriarty pursed his lips impatiently. "Well? Aren't you going to open the door?"

His employee looked back at him, his dark eyes wide with fear. "Sir, _she's_ in there!"

"Would you keep her waiting?" Moriarty questioned his underlying. "Well, I think that is rude, don't you? My _little sister_ has traveled around the world to see me! I think the least I can do is go up and say hi, don't you?"

"But what if she brought the Yarders with her?!" His underling screeched. He hurriedly turned the ignition back on to the car. "We've got to get out of here!"

Moriarty sighed impatiently. "Let me out first!"

Felix looked back at his boss as though he had lost his mind, then fumbled open the driver door and stepped out. Quickly, he opened the door for his boss, then returned to the driver side door and jumped in to speed away.

"_Coward!_" Moriarty taunted at the retreating vehicle, casually straightening his tie. His preoccupation with Danielle was such that it was only now that he realized his error.

_He should have killed Felix, instead of letting him run off like that!_ It would set a bad example to the rest of his employees! The last thing he needed was a liability.

If his underlying was too afraid to help him dispose of one measly woman, then he didn't need to be there.

_Well, after this little affair is over and done with, I will rectify that mistake._

_But now I have more important matters to attend to._

Somewhere nearby, Dani was waiting for him. He had not laid eyes on her in almost a decade.

How much had she changed? Did she still look the same, or were the rumors about her cancer true? Was she scarred and ugly now? Was she even recognizable?

But one thing he knew, with absolute certainty. He had descretely kept track of Dani's tactics over the years. She may be an assassin, but she never once killed in cold blood. All of her kills were made when her opponent was armed, and actively engaged in trying to kill her.

Dani would never shoot an unarmed man, no matter how much she despised him. And he planned to use this to his advantage.

Despite Felix's panic, he also knew that Danielle would never have come with the Yard. She would want to try to take down Moriarty herself, to kill him if she could. And she couldn't do that with other people around.

But he knew her weakness. He knew how to defeat her.

Smirking, he entered the dark building with the glee of a predator tracking down his prey.

* * *

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Moriarty sang as he entered the doorway.

The front door was void of any human presence, although he detected a slight trace of blood on the floor, as well as a bloody hand print on the wall.

Moriarty giggled at the sight. "_Dani!_ You killed my guards, didn't you? _Naughty, naughty!_ Didn't our mother always tell you to play nice?"

The room was silent.

"Well, our dear mother doesn't say anything anymore, does she, Dani?" Moriarty called out as he took a few more steps inside. "Not since the fire, wasn't it? When she screamed for you? For such a small woman, her voice could carry, couldn't it?"

Chuckling to himself, Moriarty took a few more steps into the building, darting his eyes around for any signs. The floor was still covered with a layer of dust, trampled by various shoes over the last few months. The brick walls inside were painted a dingy shade of white, which was fading and peeling over the years.

"Do you ever wonder if she was disappointed in you, Danielle? I mean, you always knew what I was, didn't you? What I was willing to do. But you let them die anyway. What daughter leaves her own mother to die?"

Moriarty paused, imagining his sister hiding in some dark corner, withering in guilt. She knew, as he did, that she was responsible.

If she had only joined him, then he wouldn't have been forced to engage in such drastic tactics.

"By the way, I heard that you are a mother yourself now! Congratulations! Didn't the doctors tell you that you couldn't have children? Well, Father said I couldn't amount to anything, and look at me now! I guess we both prove that people shouldn't underestimate us!"

He saw some color on the steps and waltzed over, making a great show of how little he feared Danielle, wherever she was watching. Cautiously, he reached down and held up the colorful objects for inspection.

They were soft, like the skin of a peach. And light, too. Red rose petals.

_Danielle's favorite flower. Left behind in a blatant attempt to unnerve him._

"_Danielle!_ This is so _sweet!_" Moriarty gushed. "One would think we were lovers, if you weren't my baby sister, and both of us were trying to kill each other!"

Moriarty began to creep up the stairs, talking loudly. "So, how old is your daughter now? Seven? Eight? Nine? You know, it really hurts my feelings that I had to find out through my minions that I was an uncle! You could have called me! Written me a letter! Sent me an email! But _no!_ I have to find out from my employees!"

One of the steps creaked loudly. Moriarty froze, looking around in the shadows. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face.

Annoyed, he brushed it aside.

"How many men did you spread your legs for when you were hiding out from me, Dani? Five? Ten? Twenty? Did you lose count? Do you even _know_ who the father is? It's bad enough having a bastard niece! Thank God Mother and Father aren't here to see how low their little girl has fallen! I'm sure they would be very upset, having a bitch granddaughter and all!"

Moriarty paused, waiting for a shout, a movement, a hiss, a gasp of breath.

Anything to betray Danielle's location.

But there was nothing.

Puzzled, Moriarty reached out, seeking out any trace of emotion that should be emitting from Danielle. It should be there, like the smell of fear a rabbit gives off, just before the wolf pounces on it and tears it to pieces. But he still failed to detect anything.

_Very good, Dani!_ Moriarty thought, impressed despite himself. When they were children playing hide-and-seek, he always made her give away her location by saying hurtful things, causing her to cry, or yell at him, or anything else that would get him to find her.

She apparently learned some things while living on the run.

_But to turn herself off completely..._

"You know you won't be able to beat me!" Moriarty cajoled as he reached the landing on the top floor. "Oh, you probably will kill me. And I will kill you! But your daughter will be all alone, won't she? Who else is going to watch over her? She won't have any other family!"

_Yes!_ Dani must surely be trembling with her guilt and indecision by now. She was a mother, after all. She spent her life protecting her daughter. Hiding her, keeping her safe, raising her. She knows what would happen to the little girl if she died.

If Danielle was alone, then dying in the attempt to take down Moriarty was a choice she would do willingly.

_However, a mother could not afford to be selfish._

"We both know how this will end, Danielle! You _know_ you can't beat me!" Moriarty yelled out. He slowly opened the door to the top offices and went inside.

The room was quiet. Not far away was the operating table that was prepared for young Claudette Bruhl. The instruments, lined up neatly on a steel tray, were ready.

Anesthetics were conspicuously absent.

And, so too, was Claudette Bruhl.

_Touché, Danielle._ Moriarty thought bitterly. _So you interfered with my plans again! _

_I best make sure you never do it again!_

Suddenly, Moriarty's cell phone rang, indicating that he just received a text. Irritated, he reached into his right pocket and brought it out. The number was blocked, so he had no idea who sent it.

The text itself was simple, and blunt. And the initials the sender had left were…_unexpected._

**To: James Moriarty **

**From: Unknown**

**In re: Unknown**

_Wrong!-SH_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Now we see Danielle Morray from Moriarty's point of view. Moriarty is one sick bastard, isn't he? He hates Dani so much that he can't think straight!

Ironic, isn't it? Before, Moriarty used Sherlock's affection for John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade to win the game. Now, Sherlock used the same strategy by using Moriarty's hate of Danielle to manipulate him into helping to destroy the web he took years to build.

Do you think Moriarty has finally figured it out _now?_

The final confrontation between Sherlock and Moriarty begins in the next chapter! Stay tuned!

**Disclaimer:**I don't own "Sherlock." But that doesn't mean that Moriarty isn't real!

**OC Clarky**-So you are saying that Moriarty came in here and stole your...uh..._unmentionables?_

**Peaceful Defender** (glares at Clarky)-Look, Clarky, I am merely taking this police report out as a formality! After you guys leave, I plan on borrowing my dad's rifle and chase him down!

**OC Clarky**-You want to borrow one of my guns?

**Peaceful Defender**-Nah! I plan on running him over with my car! The rifle is just a precaution!

**OC Clarky**-(nods approvingly) Sounds reasonable. By the way, why did you end the chapter like you did? The audience wants more than that! Personally, I want to see Lucky kick super villian Moriarty from here to China!

**Peaceful Defender**-Oh! I am posting another chapter right away!

**OC Clarky**-Well, get your butt in gear, girl! Let's see what super villain Moriarty does we he finds out how Lucky fooled him!

**Peaceful Defender**-Ok, I am posting the next chapter..._now!_


	28. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty Seven: The Abyss**

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you." Friedrich Nietzsche, _Beyond Good and Evil_

* * *

"Good evening, Moriarty. Is that a new Android cell phone, or are you just happy to see me?"

James Moriarty froze at the sound of the familiar, masculine tone.

_It can't be! _

He had expected Danielle, with her playful, lyrical voice, spouting meaningless quotes and boring him to death with her useless morality.

_This_ voice was baritone, emotionless, and cold as ice. As cold as the grave he should have been resting in.

Slowly, almost as though he was making the move while underwater, Moriarty turned around and stared into the darkness.

A person stood in the shadows on the other side of the room. A familiar person, one that he had thought he had _broken_, over a year ago!

Moriarty blinked, to see if the phantom would vanish, but he was still there. Dark hair, abet recently cut to its normal length. Familiar Belstaff coat and navy scarf.

And the eyes, of course. Intent and calculating as they took in Moriarty's appearance.

"_Sherlock_?"

Sherlock cocked his eyebrow, calmly observing his opponent. "You were expecting someone else?" He asked politely, looking slightly offended.

Moriarty gaped in astonishment for a moment. He had been looking forward to seeing Danielle again, with her blood-red hair, brown eyes, and her Cheshire-cat grin of excitement about finally facing her brother at last.

That was what this was supposed to be about, wasn't it? Danielle threatened his empire, while he threatened her daughter.

Whoever won the blood feud between the estranged siblings would get it all.

He _expected_ that, and looked forward to confronting his younger sister at last. Because he knew exactly how to beat her!

But Moriarty, who had managed to outsmart all of those who ever crossed his path, was now dumbfounded to the point that all thought processes stopped.

He was not prepared to see Sherlock standing in front of him, breathing and very much _alive!_

_Because Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be dead!_

Hell, if he had contacted Johnny Boy, the Yard, even that interfering _prat_ of a brother, then _he would know about it!_ He had his people hidden everywhere!

_There is no way Sherlock could have pulled this off on his own!_

Suddenly, Moriarty's entire demeanor changed. His manic grin returned as the possibilities of Sherlock's resurrection presented themselves.

_Sherlock is alive!_ _Ah, the game never ended, did it?_

Just as well! Mycroft wasn't _nearly_ as much fun as Sherlock. Sherlock was more, well, _unpredictable. _ That made him more of a challenge.

_Imagine what I could do if I can capture him alive! Maybe I can wrestle control of the CCTV system back from Mycroft!_

Moriarty's grin became predatory. "_Sherlock!_ How _wonderful!_ And how are you these days?"

"There are advantages about being dead, I admit. Though I have often wondered what it would really be like. I thought you may like to join me in that experiment." Sherlock replied stoically.

"Ohh! So _fiery!_ I like that, Sherlock!" Moriarty looked around casually. "Are your brother's men on the way?"

"I am sorry to disappoint you, James, but I decided to come alone. Considering what I must do, it would be best." Sherlock replied, his voice still cool.

Sherlock's tone made the hairs on the back of Moriarty's neck stand up. He felt slightly uneasy. That was a feeling he was not used to.

_What was going on? Why weren't the idiots from the Yard here, or Mycroft's men?_

Instinctively, he reached out with his ability, hoping to feel anger, apprehension, or nervousness from anyone else that may be close by. But the absence of any emotions, including Sherlock's, showed Moriarty that they were indeed alone.

It was unnerving.

Moriarty cleared his throat and smiled pleasantly. "So, where are _my_ men? Don't tell me you killed them! That would be _so_ inconvient! You know how hard it is to get good help, nowadays?"

Sherlock looked calm, but underneath his exterior, his blood boiled. If it wasn't for this man coming into his life, he never would have suffered.

_John_ never would have suffered!

"Don't you remember, Jim? We are the same. That's what you said, last time we met. I needed to get to you. Your men were in my way. I assure you, neither they nor anyone else will be joining us."

"I see. Well, bravo, Sherlock! Was it _fun_, killing them?" Moriarty said, clapping his hands together.

Sherlock remained impassive, delibrately side-stepping the issue. "It would have been less time-consuming for me if I didn't have to hide, I'll be the first to admit. Do you know how excrutiating it is, to keep myself out of range from the CCTV cameras all the time?"

"Oh, I understand! _Most tedious!_ Of course,_ I_ don't have to do that!"

Sherlock shook his head. "But now you do. Oh, I observed you as your driver dropped you off. You were anxious, and were doing your best to avoid detection. I guess it must be difficult, learning to live without the CCTV system. It must be so difficult for you to have lost all of that power."

"I got control once! I can get it again!" Moriarty shot back confidently.

"I predict that will not be a matter you should concern yourself with for much longer." Sherlock noted.

"As you say, Sherlock. But that remains to be seen. _So_, how did you do it?" Moriarty questioned earnestly.

"Faking my death? I had help from Dr. Hooper. You remember _Molly_, of course. The young woman you dated when you were blowing up those people? But then again, you probably don't. It was merely one of the many miscalculations you made in the course of our game together. One of your biggest mistakes was underestimating her."

"The great Sherlock Holmes, actually _complimenting_ someone? Will wonders never cease?" Moriarty exclaimed. "I see the months pretending to be dead have made you _sentimental._"

"Too bad I can't compliment you. Really, James? A specialized gun and some capcules of blood to make it look authentic? _Very_ unoriginal. Just like that stunt you did with the mask, so those children thought I was the kidnapper. I expected better." Sherlock said airily.

"It _worked_, didn't it? It certainly fooled _you!_ But how did you figure it out? That _I_ was alive?"

"Please, James, don't insult my intelligence! Your ring tone? _'Staying Alive?'_ How much more _obvious_ can you get?" Sherlock shot back acidly.

Moriarty smirked. "And yet no one else got it! This is why you are better than everyone else. You are just like me."

"Are you suggesting we are _monsters_, Jimmy?" Sherlock whispered mockingly.

Moriarty snickered. "I see you been talking to Danielle! So, you two have been working together then, along with your brother! _Brilliant!_ But then again, Danielle never could keep her mouth shut, could she? She will work with anyone to try to defeat me!" Moriarty looked around the darkened room, hoping to see a glance of red hair, or brown eyes. "So, where is that sister of mine? How did she fake _her_ death?"

"She didn't."

* * *

Sherlock's words rang through the silent room. Moriarty looked at him in amazement.

_Why was Sherlock lying?_

"Sherlock, darling! Why do you do this to me? I reunited you with your little dog back at the pool! Why stand in the way of a family reunion?" Moriarty teased Sherlock, yet continued to look around for his absent sister.

"Your sister died last year." Sherlock said calmly.

Moriarty looked at him in amazement. "_That's impossible!_ My men checked her grave…"

"She was buried somewhere else entirely. She anticipated your actions_ long_ before she died. Remember, she knew you better than anyone else. She spent _years_ tracking you, documenting your web, all so that when the time came, you would think it was her who was destroying you. Everything was in place. All she needed was someone to finish what she started." Sherlock related, his piercing eyes staring mercilessly at his opponent. "I volunteered. After all, we never finished our game, did we?"

Moriarty considered. The man was capable of deception, obviously. But James could sense the emotion, however faint, in Sherlock's cold, grey eyes.

_Sherlock was telling the truth._

"Well, _wonderful!_ I always wanted to be an only child!" Moriarty said gleefully. "And then she left her little empire at your disposal! Well, you _obviously_ talked to Danielle before she died. What deep, dark family secrets did she share with you? Did she tell you about our little secret? The...what did she call it? Ah, yes! The _'intuitive feeling?_' I am surprised that you didn't go to the press, once you had proof about my existence!"

"I am not in a habit of borrowing ideas from other people. That's _your_ way, not mine!" Sherlock smirked humorlessly. "So it truly worked, then? All this time, you believed it was your _sister_ who took apart your precious little empire? Moriarty, you disappoint me! I never expected you to be so easily manipulated!" Sherlock's mouth became a firm line. "But then, I probably shouldn't be surprised. Remember what you said, back at Bart's? How I preferred complicated explanations? How I always wanted things to be clever? You, on the other hand, like so many_ ordinary_ people, lack the imagination for that, so you jumped to the simple conclusion! And that was your downfall."

Moriarty began to laugh. "You're _right!_ I figured you would have at _least_ let your brother in on your little plan, with all of his resources! I must congradulate you, though. To pull all of that off, and even ask Danielle for a couple of her little catch-phrases so that I would believe that she was behind it all! Although I don't know how you could have spent more than five minutes talking to her! She could be so _dull!_ All that intelligence, tainted by emotion and her so-called _morality!_ What a waste!"

"Sounds like you were jealous. Jealous of the fact that she was always more skilled than you. It was important for you that she needed to learn that you were supposedly superior to her, wasn't it? And yet, for all your efforts, you couldn't make her follow you. What you can't have, you destroy, isn't that right?" Sherlock asked, his voice almost cordial, considering the context of the conversation.

Moriarty sniffed dismissively. "I was hardly jealous of _Danielle!_ She was a mere annoyance, nothing more. Well, since she isn't here, then I take it the information I received before was correct. Personally, she did the world a favor when she died!" Moriarty paused, then sighed dramatically. "Now, I just need to locate her daughter! Hopefully, she will prove to be more open to persuasion than her mother..."

"Sheridan."

"What?" Moriarty asked.

"_Sheridan_. That's her name, _Jimmy._ Do keep up!" Sherlock explained, as if he was already bored with the topic.

Moriarty's dark eyes lit up with understanding. "So _you_ were the one who took her after Danielle died! Ah! I see now! So _that's_ how you did it! Why didn't I see it before?"

Moriarty's manic smile was back as he went through the chain of events in his mind. "It wasn't someone within my organization selling me out to Mycroft! _It was you!_ You had my niece hack into my system and find the identities and locations of my lieutenents! And because we are so much alike, you were able to deduce my plans! How _brilliant!_ I didn't even consider it!"

"That is why you are facing me right now." Sherlock said calmly.

Moriarty nodded appreciatively.

He really _did_ miss Sherlock! Missed him so much that he actually visited his grave once. To have someone as intelligent as him to pit himself against added a spark in his life that he missed for so long.

After Sherlock supposedly died, Moriarty felt as though life no longer held any challenges for him. So he stopped trying.

Then, when he thought Danielle was enacting her vengeance against him, after so many years, he had admittedly let his hatred of her get in the way of his better judgment.

"So what's the plan, Sherlock? You deliver the child to me and I leave you and your precious city in peace? You really think one little girl is that _important_ to me?" Moriarty cajoled.

Sherlock stared at Moriarty. "To you, she is. What you offered to Mycroft in exchange for information about me was the truth, at least partly. You told him you had a code, but what you really meant was that you had a _person_. A hacker, capable of getting past any security system in the world! Someone young enough who could be convinced to use her skills and be trained to follow her captors' orders."

"I knew she existed." Moriarty admitted. "But other than the fact that she was alive, and that she is the Chimera, I know almost nothing else about her. I didn't even know here name, until you just told me! I kept trying to trace her, but Dani was always alerted whenever I got close! However, just before your brother detained me, I received news that Dani was already dying! So it was only a matter of time!"

Sherlock nodded. "You are right about her abilities. Although even a dull person with the I.Q. equivalent to Anderson's would be able to understand _that!_ Already she has shown a lot of promise, given the fact that she has already hacked into some of the most secure computer systems in the world. She has already hacked into your own system! All that information and power at your fingertips. Of course you want her!_ Anyone would!"_

Moriarty sighed in good-humored defeat. "Alright, alright! I admit it! She could be, well, _useful._ With her, I wouldn't need to bribe security guards, would I? And I am such a _fun_ person to be around! You of all people should know that! We could play games all day long, _Sheridan_ and I."

Sherlock resisted the urge to shudder at Moriarty's use of the word _games_. "That is why you will never have her." Sherlock shot back menacingly.

"Oh, _Sherlock!_ Surely you know the law? I am her closest family! _Her only family! _With Dani dead, by right she goes to me anyway! So why don't you be a good boy and tell me where is she?"

"You won't have her!" Sherlock whispered darkly, glaring at Moriarty.

Moriarty giggled. "You and I both know that all I need to do is threaten Johnny Boy and you will spill your guts! And I can get to him at any time! Remember Bart's? You jumped off the roof to save him." Moriarty shook his head and did a mock pout. "Although you didn't die, like you were supposed to! _Really_, Sherlock! You changed the ending! You must stick to the story!"

Sherlock snorted dismissively. "I prefer to improvise. But John is safe, and so is Sheri. Also, you don't have the CCTV system anymore, so you have no leverage."

"_Sheri_, is it? Have you formed an _attachment_ with the child? Another person I can use against you? I honestly can't see that! Sherlock Holmes, taking a little girl to the park, buying her little dolls, reading her stories. Let me try!" Moriarty closed his eyes tightly, than shook his head. "Nope! Don't see it! Besides, you are like me! _Remember!_ And children are so damned _boring!_"

"Actually, I find her company to be, shall we say, _tolerable._ But that is hardly surprising, considering the facts." Sherlock smirked as he calmly leaned back against the wall, studying Moriarty with triumph in his stormy eyes. "She takes after me more than she does Danielle."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed.

_Was Sherlock implying… No, that isn't possible!_

But the longer he gazed at Sherlock, the more he became convinced that Sherlock was telling the truth.

"Must I spell it out for you? Very well, Jimmy! I'll make allowances for your tiny brain!" Sherlock snapped. He took a step forward. "When Danielle hid from you, all those years ago, she and I became…acquainatances. I was living on the streets at the time, and I appreciated the fact that she disabled the CCTV system, so I could live without Mycroft looking over my shoulder every second. And despite what she was, I think we can both agree she was anything but _ordinary_! So _please_ tell me you can reach the obvious conclusion on your own! Because I have neither the time nor the patience to explain it to you!"

Moriarty gaped, too astonished to register the jabs made about his intelliegence. "Ha, ha! I can't _believe _it! Are you saying, that my sister, _Danielle_, and_ you!_? _That_ was why Mycroft sent her away? Then that means Sheridan's your _daughter_, isn't she?" Moriarty exclaimed.

"Death must be taking its toll on you, James. I would have thought you figured it out a long time ago! Why else did Mycroft not lock Danielle up, or force her to work for him? It was because I _told_ him to let her go!" Sherlock said disgustedly.

_Moriarty really was slipping badly. It was taking the fun out of the challenge between them. _

_Tragic, really, how the mighty had fallen! _

_Maybe the paint pellet somehow managed to pass through his skull and given him brain damage…_

Moriarty ignored the reference concerning his supposed lack of insight. "How _sweet!_ Your tragic love story, like a retelling of 'Romeo and Juliet.' Two tragic lovers torn apart by rival families."

"You are starting to bore me, James." Sherlock said snidely. "You used to be _so_ much more interesting than this! Now, you are just…_ordinary!_"

"My, _someone_ is having a hissy fit! Isn't this the part where you say, 'A plague on both your houses?' Mine and yours?"

"_What?_" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Oh, come off it already, Sherlock! _Use your head!_ Why do you think Mycroft _told_ me that information about you?" Moriarty paused, his black eyes full of maliciousness. "Have you ever considered that maybe _he_ had an ulterior motive?"

* * *

Sherlock froze as the meaning of Moriarty's taunt sunk in.

_Surely he didn't mean…_

"Think about it, Sherlock! Why was it so easy to get Mycroft to spill his guts? Don't you want to know how a man who knows everything could screw things up? That's because he didn't! He _wanted_ me to use that information against you! _He wanted you dead!_" Moriarty smirked, seeing that his words had the desired effect.

"No. You're wrong!" Sherlock said.

"You're supposed to be a _genius_, right? Look at the facts! I mean, everyone else turned against you! Scotland Yard arrested you, didn't they, even after all the help you gave them over the years! I bet they were foaming at the mouth over which one got to handcuff you! The media sang your praises one day and labeled you as a fraud the next! So why _not_ your brother? Maybe he was tired of dragging you out of the gutter and decided to make a clean break of things! Tired of taking care of the _Freak!_"

Sherlock shook his head, managing to keep a straight face. But inside, his mind whirled as he considered the terrible possibility.

Mycroft _always_ held up to the family name, and his brother's disregard to the social norms must surely been a constant source of irritation to him.

_But did Mycroft value his job and his country over his brother?_

It _can't_ be true! He always assumed his brother made a serious miscalculation. A mistake.

_But what if it was true? What if Mycroft really did want Sherlock dead and used Moriarty as a means to fulfill that goal?_

But wasn't the rest of what Moriarty was saying correct as well?

Scotland Yard certainly didn't care about him. But he expected that from them.

Unbidden, memories of every crime scene he had ever visited rushed forward. All of those cruel insults, those snide remarks, that accusations that he was a freak and a psychopath. He never bothered to let those times bother him before, having gotten used to insults to the point that he was far more comfortable with them than he was with praise.

And he wasn't _hurt_ by their actions. He would have had to have _cared_ about their opinions to be hurt, right?

_But why did he feel so empty when he replayed the arrest over and over in his head? _

Even _Lestrade_ turned his back on him in the end...

"_John_ hasn't turned against me!" Sherlock finally said, looking at Moriarty with triumph.

_Yes!_ That was true! John, his best friend, _never_ turned against Sherlock! There have been times during the past year that he silently berated John for his blind loyalty, but now John's example served as an anchor for him.

It helped him see through Moriarty's lies.

Moriarty wasn't willing to admit defeat so easily. "And what do you think John will do when he learns you tricked him? Do you think he's going to _welcome_ you back with open arms? Do you think _anyone_ is going to be happy that you're still around? _No!_ Did you know he started walking with a cane again? That he started seeing his therapist? That he still wakes up from nightmares? And _you_ did that to him, Sherlock. Do you _really_ think he will forgive you?!" Moriarty crowed.

Sherlock felt that his chest would explode. What did Moriarty say during the Great Game?

_I will burn the heart out of you. _

Moriarty had promised him that. And he told Sherlock nothing but the truth.

Because, _logically_, Moriarty was right.

John would _never_ forgive him for this!

Why would he? _Why should he?_

The trauma of what he put John through during the Baskerville Hound case was _nothing _compared to what Sherlock did this time.

_Everything_, from the grief, the nightmares, the pain, the loneliness…it was all Sherlock's fault.

He had broken John.

_How could anyone forgive that?_

"You're right." Sherlock conceded.

"Of course I am!" Moriarty said gleefully. "I'm _always_ right! He's your little pet, Sherlock. Poor little Johnny Boy! And you _really_ think there is a chance he would welcome you back, knowing that you could put him through it again? But the main question is why do you care so much? He's so _ordinary_! Just a broken cripple!"

"_Shut up!_" Sherlock yelled, the pent-up rage flashing in his eyes. "You may be right about a lot of things, but don't think for a moment that give you a right to insult John in front of me! Do it again, and I'll _kill_ you!"

"Ooooh! I'm sooooo scared! _Sherlock is going to hurt me!_" Moriarty mocked.

Suddenly, Sherlock's expression went from tormented to impassive again. The despair and anger that coursed through him vanished.

_Dani's final letter. "Jimmy will do everything he can to use what is precious to you, so he can cause you to doubt yourself. But when he does, you must shut yourself down, just as you do with the rest of the world! Use his own tactics against him!"_

_Nina Somoto, back at Hyde Park. "Mycroft has probably lost about twenty pounds since all of this has started!"_

_John, back at Bart's hospital, on that fateful day. "Friends protect people!"_

_Chelsea Atkins, back in Georgia. "You know that as long as 'Mr. Brooks' is still free, Sheridan can never be safe."_

Sherlock took a barely audiable breath, relishing the fact that his memories were being sorted back to their places. Emotion was gone, replaced by cold, cold logical.

_Moriarty thinks he can get me to stop focusing on him, and lose the one advantage I have._

_But I am different from everyone Moriarty has ever matched wits with. _

_I am Sherlock Holmes. A freak. A sociopath. I don't care about anyone. _

_And I will beat him!_

_Because what Moriarty said doesn't matter. _

"Why do you think I'm here?" Sherlock asked cryptically.

"_What?_" Moriarty asked incredulously. He had sensed the inner turmoil Sherlock was experiencing, when it suddenly..._stopped._ Those feelings of guilt, self-loathing, anger...they were _all_ gone! He couldn't feel _anything_ from Sherlock now.

_Just like the time at the pool. When Sherlock had shut him out completely and aimed the gun at the bomb, threatening to blow them all up. No emotion or doubt held him back. And James, for the first time, felt that he had finally found an opponent worth killing. _

He had been excited then. A _far_ cry from the chill he felt now!

"You heard me. It doesn't matter. None of this matters!" Sherlock fixed Moriarty with his coldest glare. "Your sister already warned me that you would do this. That you manipulate people's emotions to suit your own purposes. Greed, anger, fear! You use that, and get people to do whatever you want. _But I'm different_!"

"You're _ordinary!_" Moriarty retorted.

"Hardly! But it isn't the fact that I have an intellect far more superior than you, or that I am willing to do anything to win! That isn't why you can't defeat me!"

"_Really?_ And why is that?" Moriarty smirked, his black eyes glowing with malice.

Sherlock took another step forward. "Danielle told me about your secret. How you are able to detect people's emotions. You use that to your advantage. But you can't use it on me, can you?! _Because I feel nothing!_ I'm a cold, calculating machine! Everyone says so! So any attempts to distract me from killing you are utterly pointless, and futile."

Sherlock paused, his face aglow with triumph. In the dim moonlight, he looked like an avenging angel, calmly observing the devastation he wrought. "I've always assumed emotions were a dangerous disadvantage! Especially when dealing with someone like you! That is why _I_ have already won the game! I won it a long time ago. You just didn't know it until now."

"What are you going on about?" Moriarty asked, his face contorted with anger and confusion.

"Danielle told me that the only way to defeat you was to get inside your head. To become like you! So that is what I did! It was so easy, too, once I figured out what makes you tick." Sherlock smirked. "All those messages, taunting you! You thought Danielle had a traitor in your organization! I played on your beliefs, and allowed you to destroy what you spent a lifetime trying to build. And you fell for it! So _ordinary_!"

Sherlock threw back his head and laughed cruelly. "There is too much _stupid_ in this room, Moriarty! How can you _stand_ that small mind of yours? Given the choice between you and Anderson, I think I'll take _Anderson!"_

Moriarty trembled with repressed rage. His earlier admiration for Sherlock's cleverness had vanished as he realized the full extent of Sherlock's deception and exactly what it cost him.

_Sherlock was right. Moriarty had been played! _

Sherlock finally stopped laughing and stared at Moriarty, his face a cool mask once more. "While I enjoyed the challenges you presented in the beginning, I have now grown weary of your utter lack of imagination and creativity. _You bore me, Moriarty._ You became obsessed with trying to outwit your sister, only to find out you have been chasing a _ghost_ this whole time!" Sherlock smirked again as he watched Moriarty shake with anger, barely reigning it in.

"But enough with this pointless conversation. Tonight, you and I will finish what we started last year. No snipers. No hostages. No more games. Just you and me. The way it was supposed to be." Sherlock finished as he positioned himself in front of the door, his stance tense.

Moriarty scoffed, trying to show he wasn't concerned.

He _almost_ succeeded.

"A fight to the death? But Sherlock, you wouldn't kill an unarmed man, now would you? You aren't like that. You aren't a _killer_."

"Didn't _you _say before that we were alike? Why didn't I bring an audience to watch as I slap the cuffs on you and have the Met take you away? Because I know that as long as you are alive, no one is safe!" Sherlock moved away from the doorway and slowly stepped closer to Moriarty. "I'm willing to go to prison, even die, as long as you go down with me."

"Sherlock, you have gotten _boring_ on me! How depressing!"

"If you feel the need to commit suicide, don't let me stop you. You have to admit, it's _sexier!_" Sherlock taunted, mimicking Moriarty's voice as he repeated the very words he taunted Sherlock with eighteen months ago.

"That really hurts my feelings, Sherlock! No, really! It does!" Moriarty whined mockingly. It did not succeed in hiding the apprehension he felt.

Because Sherlock was right. There was no one else left. Moriarty, through his paranoia, had succeeded in driving everyone else away.

He was truly on his own this time.

"Stop acting like Mycroft on a diet, Moriarty! _It's over._ You lost a long time ago. All you have left is me. _Think about it!_ Or try to, if you can! The public ultimately didn't buy your story about me. It took them a few months to get it right. _Slow_, I admit, but eventually they figured it out. Of course, _you_ were planning that they never found out! That I would die a disgrace! And for what? All of it was to get back at _Mycroft_, for putting Danielle out of your reach!"

"So you _admit_ your brother wanted me to get rid of you!" Moriarty shot back.

"Oh, do keep up, _Jimmy!_ If Mycroft wanted me _dead_, he would have left me to overdose a long time ago! Do you really think he would plan my demise with someone as incompetent as you in charge? Even _Anderson_ would have more success!" Sherlock sighed, exasperated.

Moriarty seethed with rage. "You dare to call me _incompetent_?!"

"Look at the facts, Jimmy! I'm still alive, abet not legally. Your plan to destroy my reputation was ruined by a bunch of _normal, ordinary people_, who did it all on their own, without Mycroft's or my interference. All your lieutinents are dead or captured. Your precious network is gone, destroyed through my efforts and your own paranoia. Moran, your precious little _pet_, is gone, defeated by John. _You have nothing_! By now, Mycroft has not only taken back control of the CCTV system, but your entire system as well! Very likely he is emptying your bank accounts and seizing any remaining assets as I speak."

Moriarty smiled. "And will your _brother_ save the officers at New Scotland Yard?"

"_What?_" Sherlock asked.

"Can your precious older brother save Scotland Yard from being blown up?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock muttered irritably, although his forehead furrowed as worry appeared to set in.

"One of my men was tasked to plant a bomb at the New Scotland Yard Headquarters." Moriarty smirked, happy to have surprised Sherlock. "All I have to do is send a call on my cell phone, and the place goes 'BOOM!'"

Moriarty grinned slyly as he pulled out his cell phone and held it up for Sherlock to see.

"Had I known you were alive, I would have planned for Johnny Boy to be there. Maybe even made you choose between that Inspector friend of yours and John! Oh, well! Sometimes you have to plan on your feet." Moriarty finished smugly.

"_No!"_ Sherlock protested, stepping towards Moriarty.

"_Ah, ah!_ Watch your step, Sherlock. I would hate to send the call so quickly!" Moriarty smirked. "Do you think they are there now, Sherlock? Donovan and Anderson, who hated and despised you? Maybe Lestrade, who ultimately threw you away, like _garbage?_ Wouldn't it be ironic, to be killed by the man they were so sure was just a myth a year ago?" Moriarty taunted, placing his finger on the "SEND" button.

Sherlock responded by serrendipidously producing a pistol from somewhere deep within the folds of his coat. He moved so quickly that it looked like he had just preformed a magic trick. "You push that button, and I swear you will live to regret it!"

Moriarty smirked mercilessly. "Oh, so you came armed! How wonderful! Well, Sherlock, let's try this again. And this time, no cheating!"

"Let me guess, seeing as how you are so easy to deduce!" Sherlock shot back. "I put the gun to my head and commit suicide, or you blow up the Yard. Did I get it right?"

Moriarty smiled again. "You know what, that is a _wonderful_ idea! Now I'll finally get the answer! What do you want more, Sherlock? To save ordinary people's lives, or to catch me?"

"I already died once, Moriarty. I have no intention of letting you go now!" Sherlock whispered menacingly.

"You and I both now that I will push the button before you can pull that trigger! The only way you can save them now is to kill yourself!" Moriarty insisted. "_You_ know it, and _I _know it!"

Sherlock shook his head. There was no hint of indecision in his eyes. "I told you before, Jimmy. _I am you._ I am willing to _burn_ to stop you. Do you really think that killing a bunch of ingrates from the Yard is of any concern to me?"

Moriarty's grin widened. "You're _serious!?_ You are willing to let innocent people die, just so you can beat me?"

Sherlock gave one curt nod. His cold grey eyes showed no hint of indecision. "_People die, Jimmy!_ That's what they do!"

Moriarty threw back his head and laughed. "So I've _won!_ Haven't I?"

Sherlock didn't respond. His silence was answer enough for the both of them.

Moriarty continued talking, basking in his own personal victory. "_This is all I ever wanted!_ For you to see how pointless it was to fight on the side of angels! For you to realize that we are exactly the same!"

"You mean that we are both _monsters_, don't you?" Sherlock whispered, his stance tense as he tightened his grip on the pistol.

"I guess we are, Sherlock! That's why people like John will never understand us! They are too _ordinary!_ Too predictable! John would have put the gun to his forehead and blew his brains out by now!"

"You're right. But then again, _I'm not John!"_ Sherlock retorted emotionlessly.

"I know." Moriarty whispered triumphantly. In the dark room, his voice was strangley reminiscent of a snake. "_You are me._"

Then he pushed the button.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _NOOOOOOOOO!_

How could I? An evil cliffhanger!? Why? WHY?! (Because I'm a lawyer, and we all have a little evilness in us! Ha ha!)

Personally, I don't like it anymore than you guys do! But you know I don't make you wait months before I post the next chapter. I wouldn't do that to you! You guys have been great!

So, I promise to post in the next twenty four hours (barring my death, severe illness, hospitalization, lose of internet, lose of computer, kidnapped by Mycroft, ect.)

Sorry! I'm an attorney, and I just had to post that disclaimer. So fingers crossed and let's hope one of my former clients or one of my characters doesn't plan on delaying me!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." Thank goodness, right? Or Clarky would become an actual character in Series 3!

**Silvia Anderson-**_RUN! _ Moriarty pushed the button! We are all going to _die!_

**OC Clarky** (scoffs)-_Anderson!_ We are _not_ going to die! I refuse to believe that Lucky will allow us to be blown up! He probably switched phones on Moriarty, or something!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Or maybe he had Sheridan block the signal from Moriarty's cell phone!

**Peaceful Defender**-Can she do that?

**OC Chase Douglas**-Oh yeah! It's real easy, if you know what you are doing! You simply hack into the telephone company mainframe, then monitor the phone towers until you see that Moriarty is calling, then you simply isolate the signal before it bounces off the next tower, and then...

**OC Clarky**-_Okay?_ So, in case this is it, I just want you all to know that you are all real good people to work with, and I enjoyed my brief time working with you!

**Sally Donovan**-That's nice Clarky, but _I_ have no intention of dying today!

**OC Clarky**-I just want to go on the record that I believe in Lucky, and I know he won't let us down, even though you guys arrested him for a crime he didn't commit...

**Stanley Hopkins**-_Hey! _ I had nothing to do with that!

**OC Clarky**-Or called him every name in the book...

**Sally Donovan**-You've made your point, Clarky!

**OC Clarky**-Or insulted him and accused him of being a fraud...

**Silvia Anderson**-FINE! _I'm sorry!_ Is that what you want to hear, Clarky?

**OC Clarky**-_I'm_ not the one you should be apologizing to! So, in case we go to that big log cabin in the sky, should I compose a final song?

**Peaceful Defender**-NOOOOOOOOOO! Although I would like to hear from my readers as to how the Yard survives this one! Any ideas?


	29. Chapter 28

**Warning: Cursing, violence, blood, and major (character(s)?) death! Also a psychoanalysis on yours truly!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty Eight: The End of All Things**

"A man who won't die for something is not fit to live." Martin Luther King, Jr.

* * *

The resulting explosion of difficult to recall, especially for those who were caught up in the immediate blast zone.

The source of the explosion, as it turned out, was located on the first floor, in an area that would cause the maximum amount of damage.

It was a very powerful blast, all things considered. More powerful than Moriarty himself had anticipated. It didn't cause the building to collapse on itself right away, but the ensuing chain of disruption was already assured. Anyone trapped within the upper floors needed to escape quickly, or risk being crushed when the building eventually toppled under its own weight.

There was smoke, obviously, and fire. Falling debris added to the chocking mist, making the air almost unbreathable. The suvivors stumbled around, unable to get their balance.

The scene of devestation was unreal, like a dream sequence. Or a nightmare, with the participants groping wildly around, unable to see any color in the toxic atmosphere.

No color, of course, except that of the flames and the blood that poured into their eyes.

It wasn't at all like Moriarty had planned.

* * *

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!" James screamed, trying to get himself heard through the flames.

Sherlock finally managed to pull himself up into a standing position, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the blood pouring down his face. After Moriarty pressed the button, he was knocked backwards, losing his grip on his pistol, which was now somewhere on the floor.

Nevertheless, the missing weapon was the _least_ of Sherlock's concerns at the moment.

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, only a few meters away, his face still visible, even in the thickening smoke. "Your little worker at the Yard, _Baxley_, really shouldn't leave his toys in his car! Who knows who may come along and take them? And if said person should plant the bomb in the corner of an abandoned building, along with some that he made himself…"

James's face fell as he realized what Sherlock was implying. The manic light in his eyes dimmed. His face crumpled in grief as he raised both of his hand to grab at his black hair, heedless to the blood that leaked from the cuts to his face.

His mouth hung open as if he was screaming, but no sound came out.

To be out-played by someone, to _lose_ so completely?

_How could this happen? _

_How!?_

Sherlock observed Moriarty a few feet away as his mind broke as he tried to grapple with the fact that he truly had been outdone. The once genius psychopath was a picture of abject misery as he breathed quickly and tears of rage started to form at the edges of his soulless eyes.

_And Sherlock didn't care._

If he could make Moriarty feel even an ounce of the desolation and solitude he had suffered, this will _all_ be worth it!

"As you no doubt deduced, the bomb Baxley was entrusted with never reached its destination. And after you pressed the button, sending the command, the bombs detonated, as you knew they would. Isn't it_ amazing_ what simple chemical compounds, combined with the right incinary device, can accomplish?"

"You stupid arsehole! We are both _trapped_ in here!" Moriarty screamed, his voice already hoarse from the fumes that poured into the room.

"_Really?_ Oh, dear! Whatever shall we do? Maybe we should _jump?_ Would you like to go first, James? Stupidity before brilliance, and all?" Sherlock taunted smugly, before hacking from the fumes.

"So this is what this is all about, Sherlock?" Moriarty said through clenched teeth. "You going to be a _hero_ now!? Take out the evil criminal and lose your life in the process!? Just like you tried to do with Dzundza!"

Sherlock instinctively reached for his scarf, then pulled back his hand, which was slick with blood.

_A few of his stitches have ripped open._

Instead of being upset with this turn of events, Sherlock looked even more elated. "So you finally figured it out? Yes, Dzundza did manage to give me a scratch or two. Hardly worth talking about!"

"I'll make you _choke_ on your own blood!" Moriarty screamed.

"_Now_ who is throwing the hissy fit!" Sherlock shot back, a smirk playing on his features.

"No matter where you go, _I'll find you!" _ Moriarty raged. "I will personally feed you pieces of your own flesh, and watch as I put you through every pain I can think of!"

"You misunderstand me again, James. But don't worry! I'll try to use small words so your pathetic mind can catch up!" Sherlock retorted mercilessly. "I am _not_ a hero! And I never will be! I am, however, willing to do _anything_, including being burned alive, to take you down and win this game! You and I will finally meet in Hell! If it exists, of course! Do you believe in Hell, Moriarty? My life has certainly been comparable to it, especially after you showed up!"

"What about your _daughter!?"_ Moriarty shouted. He was _really_ starting to panic now.

He knew the truth. Sherlock was going to kill him. Even at the cost of his life.

_And there was no one there to stop him!_

"She will get along fine without me! Donovan would tell you that I make little girls scream anyway!" Sherlock smirked humorlessly. "And she's a smart girl. She understands the meaning of sacrifice! Better for her to have a normal, dull life than for either of us to exist, to always be a danger to her!"

"You would leave her to fend for herself!? I'm not the only one who can go after her!" Moriarty yelled.

Sherlock didn't change his expression. "Unlike Danielle, who couldn't afford to lose her life without someone able to step in to watch Sheridan, _I _actually have family members who will make sure that Sheridan will be taken care of! So I can die, knowing that she will be in my brother's care! She _will_ be protected, and that's all that matters!"

"What about Lestrade? Johnny Boy? What about your friends?!"

"_Jimmy!_" Sherlock smiled broadly. A cold smile, without a scantilla of mirth. "Don't you remember? You burnt the heart out of me! I don't feel anything anymore! _I'm dead!_"

Sherlock paused as he looked ruthlessly into Moriarty's eyes. "_And the dead have no friends_!"

* * *

"_You fucking bastard!_" Moriarty screamed. "_You can't do this to me!_"

Sherlock blinked once as blood began to drip into his eyes. "That's where you're wrong, Jimmy! But I'll give you a sporting chance! Get out of this building, and you live."

"But in order to do that, I have to go through you, am I right?" Moriarty shot back sardonically.

"Only be fitting! I am the only obstacle left!" Sherlock observed calmly before he coughed again.

"You want me to _fight_ you!? Are you serious!?" Moriarty asked disbelievingly.

He was answered quickly when Sherlock took a step forward and hit him squarely in the jaw.

Moriarty fell down to the ground and stared blankly as blood came gushing out of his mouth from a knocked-out tooth and a split lip. "_You fucking bastard!_"

"I _did_ warn you." Sherlock reminded him. "But even now, I'll give you a choice! Surrender yourself to me, and we will wait for the Yard to arrive, or you can try and fail to get past me, and we will burn together! Decide soon, or the choice will be made for us!"

Even as he said those words, Sherlock felt a wave of disbelief pass through him. He planned to give Moriarty a chance to surrender, more out of a sense of honor towards John (who would want him to do it, regardless) than actual compassion.

But it was one thing to plan for it and quite another to_ actually_ go through with it!

_What if Moriarty accepts? Because isn't Sheridan right? Won't he continue to come after us? _

Moriarty gave out a scream of rage as he jumped up and swung forward, making it clear that he had no such plans to surrender. Sherlock stepped to the side and out of Moriarty's reach, but not before landing a couple of well-placed punches on his own.

Moriarty fell to the floor, whithering.

Sherlock drunk in the pitiful sight, ignoring the pain of the various small cuts and bruises that screamed in protest every time he moved. "I'm disappointed, Moriarty! And you accuse _me_ of getting my brother's protection? Tell me something, did your sister beat you up, James? Did little Danielle show you up at the school playground? Is that why you can't fight your own battles?" Sherlock tormented Moriarty with his words as he watched from his vantage point.

"_Shut up!_" Moriarty screamed. He slowly raised himself to a standing position and swayed in place, looking venomously at Sherlock. His polished, Grecian-like face was now a mask of blood and dirt.

He looked menacing, like a rabid dog ready to lunge at its tormentor. Sherlock was momentarily reminded of the Baskerville Case, when he was under the influence of that drug and believed he saw Moriarty trying to attack him like a beast from Hell. The look on his face was almost the exact same as it was now.

But Sherlock would not give Moriarty the pleasure of knowing that.

"You _lost_, James! _And you know it!_ Even if you somehow beat me and escape, you will always live with the knowledge that I was always the better man!" Sherlock berated Moriarty.

Moriarty suddenly smiled. "I think not!"

The sound of a pistol shot echoed in the frigid night air.

* * *

Sherlock saw, too late, that Moriarty must have somehow found his pistol, just seconds before he fired.

Knowing instinctively that Moriarty was counting on Sherlock to duck back and try to avoid the shot, Sherlock jumped forward at the same time Moriarty fired.

The maneuver was only particially successful. While Moriarty failed to shoot him in the chest, the bullet managed to hit his side, just under his rib cage, where the bullet lodged itself.

The pain caused him to gasped out, and he bit his lip as he grabbed Moriarty's wrist and twisted it hard, feeling a brutish pleasure at hearing the wrist bone crack.

Moriarty screamed and doubled over, grasping his injured limb as the gun clattered away as it hit the floor, once again lost in the thickening haze. Not pausing for a second, Sherlock continued his assault, ignoring his injuries as he punched and kicked Moriarty.

With each hit, Sherlock felt more and more empowered. An all-consuming rage drove him as he beat his opponent mercilessly. A lucky blow caught Moriarty in the mouth, and Sherlock grinned wildly as he heard the distinct sound of Moriarty's jaw breaking.

_Does that hurt, you bastard!?_

Suddenly, the floor beneath Sherlock shifted, causing him to lose his balance and fall down onto his back. Turning his head enough, Sherlock saw that a portion of the floor had burnt away, and the structure was starting to fail.

_I don't have much time!_

Before Sherlock could roll to his side and race for the door, something grabbed his throat and began to squeeze. Gasping, Sherlock thrashed around blindly, kicking and frailing his arms to get his assailant off him.

No. Not an assailant.

_Moriarty._

Even in the dream-like gloom of the smoke, he could still see Moriarty clearly. The man's face was covered in blood, and his jaw drooped to one side, the result of Sherlock's well-placed punch from earlier. Already his face was swelling, and his breaths came out in ragged hitches.

But his eyes were the worst.

Those cold, black, empty eyes. The very ones that had haunted his peace of mind for years now, stared manically down on him, bulging in madness.

No longer was Moriarty going to pretend anything. He was going to destroy the man who defeated him, no matter what.

Moriarty's fingers continued to press down, closing off Sherlock's air supply and ripping open the stab wound on his throat. Fresh blood spilled onto Moriarty's hands and onto Sherlock's face as the two men continued to grapple with one another, with one man refusing to relinquish his hold on the other man's neck while the other furtively tried to pry his opponent's hands off of him.

In this way they fought, heedless to the sound of the flames creeping closer to them and the groans of the building as its foundation was beginning to lose the battle to the devastation. Heedless to the thick, inpenitrable smoke and choking fumes. Heedless to the burning pain from Sherlock's throat and the stabbing pain from Moriarty's broken wrist and jaw.

Heedless to everything else except each other.

* * *

Sherlock made another frantic grab at Moriarty's hands, focusing on the one that he had broken earlier, but Moriarty ignored the pain.

Sherlock felt himself start to black out. He gasped, trying desperately to stay alert, but his oxygen-starved brain wasn't helping.

"When I'm done killing you, Sherlock, I just want you to know that this will not end in your death!" Morairty whispered through the smoke, his voice garbled and muffled as he attempted to speak with his broken jaw.

Sherlock's eyes, which were in the process of closing, now snapped back open.

"I will go after them, one by one! Everyone you have ever cared about! Everyone that you have ever known! I will go to sleep listening to the delicious sounds of their screams!"

_No!_

"I will lick their blood off my fingers as they cry for mercy! I will _break_ them in every way possible!"

_No!_

"Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, Sheridan, Johnny Boy!"

_NO!_

Moriarty's smile was almost fond as he leaned forward to whisper the next words to the detective. "_And it will all be your fault!"_

_NOOOOO!_

In an almost inhuman burst of strength, Sherlock threw his hands up, not bothering to try to break Moriarty's grip on his throat. Instead, he went after Moriarty's eyes, using his thumbs to try to claw them out.

Moriarty screamed and reach up to protect his eyes, letting go of Sherlock throat in the process. Without wasting a second, Sherlock instinctively curled his knees up to his chest, ignoring the pain that wrecked his body. In one swift, fluid motion, he kicked his feet upward and aimed them squarely into Moriarty's chest.

Sherlock's last view of Moriarty was bizarre, as though time had slowed down. He saw Moriarty fall back, his eyes bulged in surprise as his hands flew from them to his chest. In his panic, one of his hands had grasped tightly toward Sherlock, as though determined to bring him with him. However, his frantic snatches only succeeded in grabbing Sherlock's navy scarf, which was loose and thus slid off of Sherlock's neck as though it was covered in grease.

The scarf still clung tightly in his fist, Moriarty continued falling. His mouth was a solid "O," as if he was screaming, but it was impossible to tell over the sound of the burning timber and the crumbling bricks.

Staggering, the consulting criminal continued to fall backwards until he hit the glass window pane behind him.

The window, old as it was and probably damaged from time and the elements, could not stop his momentum.

In a shower of broken glass and blood, glittering in the flames like a mixture of diamonds and rubies, Moriarty fell backwards out of the building, his black eyes locked for a moment with Sherlock's bluish-grey ones.

It was at that one moment, suspended in time, that they both realized the game was truly over.

And then Moriarty disappeared from view, destined to meet the pavement below. Destined to suffer the same fate that he had once envisioned for his opponent. Destined to die, defeated by the one person who was willing to destroy himself so that he would keep those he cared about safe from harm.

Sherlock had no time to reflect on these matters. His brain, still reeling from being deprived of oxygen, rebelled, and he lost consciousness.

His last conscious thought was filled with immense irritation at Moriarty, for stealing his scarf.

* * *

"Here, John! You better put this on!" Lestrade said, throwing John a bullet-proof vest.

"Thanks." John hurriedly pulled the vest over his jumper and pulled it over his head. "Are we ready to go?"

"Almost!" Clarky said. "The troops are almost geared up. Oh, that reminds me!" Serrendipidously, Clarky reached into his coat and withdrew a pistol. "Glock 37. Magazine's already locked and loaded. Just stay safe, and leave us to do the shooting."

"_Bloody hell_, Clarky! You work in forensics! You aren't _authorized_ to have a weapon! And just how many guns to you have anyway?" Donovan asked, her brown eyes wide with alarm. "I saw the three you keep in your desk!"

"It depends. How many guns am I _legally_ allowed to have?" Clarky grinned slyly.

Lestrade shook his head as he adjusted his own vest. "And you wonder why we Brits think that Americans just shoot things all the time!"

"As Teddy Roosebelt once said, 'tread softly and carry a big stick.' Besides, we can't let John come without a little protection, can we? Anyway, I already gave Anderson a gun, before he left with Stanley!" Clarky said amiably.

"_You gave Anderson a gun?!_" Lestrade gasped.

"Of course I did! Why shouldn't I? He may need it!" Clarky said mildly.

"He'll shoot himself in the foot with it!" Donovan protested. "Everyone knows he can't shoot a gun to save his life!"

"_Hey!_ He wanted to come! We are going to the lair of a super villain! I just want everyone to be prepared!" Clarky reasoned. "John can always treat Anderson if he blows his foot off! He can handle it!"

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade muttered under his breath.

* * *

Sherlock moaned as he half-stumbled, half-crawled, down the stairs, surrounded by flames and smoke.

After he regained consciousness (a feat made possible by the fire, which caught hold to one of his sleeves, causing a slight burn on his shoulder but succeeding in waking him), Sherlock managed to navigate down the four flights of stairs until he reached the bottom floor.

All around him, the building was burning. It was a raging inferno on all sides, while the support beams groaned as they threatened to collapse at any moment.

There was no escape at all.

_Except for one._

* * *

"What _happened?"_ John breathed as he, Donovan, Clarky, and Lestrade raced up to Hopkins, who was watching the blazing pile of rubble crackle and burn in front of him.

All around them was a scene of utter tumult. The London Fire Brigade were rushing around with hoses and working to douse the fire which lit up the night sky. Thick, bellowing smoke rose to the sky, while the flames continued to burn brightly. Other members of the Met were rushing around, engaged in their various duties.

"Don't look at me, mate! The building was like this when we got here!" Hopkins said, pointing towards the burning inferno of what was once the headquarters of Pyramid Housing. "According to witnesses, the fire started about fifteen minutes ago, after what they describe as a very loud explosion. Fire fighters are trying to keep the blaze contained, to keep it from spreading!"

Hopkins paused and looked down toward the ground. "Right now we have found one body…"

"_What?!_" Lestrade breathed.

"Yeah. The witnesses all saw a man fall out of the top story window, about five minutes ago! The paramedics said he died on impact. I haven't seen it yet, but it's over there." Hopkins said, motioning to the area that was roped off.

Several meters away, on the pavement in front of the building, was a white sheet, which served to protect the body until the scene could be processed.

"_Oh, God!_" John whispered disparingly.

On impulse, he ran over toward the body, ignoring Lestrade's voice bellowing behind him. Ducking under the tape, he ran over and flung the sheet off.

_Please Sherlock! _

_Please! _

_This better not be you…_

It wasn't.

* * *

On the stone pavement, spread out in a gruesome parody of what he forced Sherlock to do a year and a half ago, lay the body of James Moriarty. Blood oozed to make a sticky halo around his head as his arms and legs laid in positions impossible for a person to do in life. The metallic smell of blood and the fried smell of burnt human flesh assaulted John's nose.

Despite the damage to the body, there could be no doubt. Moriarty's eyes, his cold, black eyes, stared out behind the mask of ruined flesh. Still intact, they stared upward, glazed over and lifeless. His mouth was open, as though he was locked in a silent scream, or perhaps he was shocked that someone like him could ever succumb to something as common as _death_.

Regardless, he did not die peacefully.

Despite the disturbing scene, John could not help but feel an immense sense of relief and satisfaction.

Moriarty, the bastard that killed people for fun and was the principle architect in the misery that had been John's existence over the last eighteen months, was _finally_ gone!

_Of course, when he's buried, I may just stand over it with a gun that shoots silver bullets and a wooden stake! Just in case!_

"JOHN!" Lestrade ran over, breathless. "Is it…"

"It's Moriarty." John replied. His tone was cold, with a touch of exuberance. "Bastard got burnt up real bad before he fell down here!"

Lestrade looked over John's shoulder and gazed upon Moriarty's ruined shell. "Maybe he _jumped._" Lestrade muttered humorlessly.

Donovan came up beside him, then slowly circled the body until she was on the opposite side of John. She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank God! It's really _him_, isn't it?" Donovan sighed, her voice laced with satisfaction and relief.

"Yeah." John said. He looked haggard in the dancing yellow and orange light of the flames.

Clarky smirked. "_Ding dong, the bastard's gone!_" Stepping around to get a better view of the body, he narrowed his eyes in thought. "I'm kind of disappointed, actually. I thought he would be...taller."

Lestrade looked wonderingly at the corpse. "I _still_ can't believe it! Is it really over?"

"Not until we find Sherlock." John replied firmly. "He's probably around here somewhere! We need to see if he is pretending to be a member of the London Fire Brigade again…"

"_Oh God_!" Donovan muttered softly.

Moving slowly, as though she was sleepwalking, she bent down beside Moriarty's body. With surprising gentleness, she carefully unwrapped a piece of cloth that was clutched in Moriarty's stiffened hand, ignoring all procedural protecal on handling evidence.

"Donovan?" Lestrade asked. "What are you doing?!"

"_Oh God!_" Donovan muttered again, the distress evident in her tone. Eyes filling with tears, Donovan silently held the fabric up for the men to see it.

It was a scarf.

A _very_ familiar blue scarf.

And it was saturated in blood.

* * *

"JOHN! You can't go in there!" Clarky yelled as he struggled to hold John back from racing into the building.

"Get the _fuck _off of me, Clarky!" John screeched.

Hopkins gritted his teeth as he, Clarky, and Lestrade struggled with the former soldier. _Who would have thought that a short man had so much strength?_ "_Like hell, John!_ You aren't going in there!"

Donovan and Anderson stood a small distance away, stuck dumb as they silently watched the melee in progress.

"Sherlock isn't in there, John! Don't think that for one second!" Lestrade ordered as he continued holding onto John's sleeve.

"THEN WHAT THE HELL IS _THIS_ DOING HERE?!" John yelled as he held up the blue fabric.

Sherlock's blue scarf. And it had _blood_ on it.

Lestrade groaned as he saw the fabric. _He recognized it too._ "Well, that doesn't mean anything! If Sherlock _was_ in there, which I say is still unlikely, then he would have gotten out! He is clever, John. He would have escaped!"

"Are you trying to convince yourself of that?" John whispered miserably. The crackling fire continued to burn brightly, still destroying the building and blocking all effective means of entering the inferno and searching for survivors. "He would_ never_ leave his scarf behind, Lestrade! _You know that!"_

John finally slumped down in defeat, his knees buckling. The three men loosened their grip but did not let go, fearing that John may still make a final lunge and try to enter the blazing inferno.

But John had no such plans. He knew, already, that he arrived too late to save his friend.

_This was like his dream. Sherlock was trapped in a burning building, waiting for John to save him. _

_And John, like before, was too late. _

_Sherlock was gone. And he never had a chance to talk to him…_

"JOHN! LISTEN TO ME!" Lestrade yelled, grabbing John and shaking him by the shoulders. "_We'll find him!_ You can't give up now! Sherlock needs you! We _all_ need you right now!"

John stared blankly at Lestrade before nodding slowly.

_What if Lestrade is right? What if Sherlock did make it out?_

"Good." Lestrade said, patting John on the shoulder. "Now let's get away from here before Anderson yells at us for ruining his crime scene. I need your help to search the LBG. There's always a chance that Sherlock could be pretending to be one of them."

"I'll try." John said, looking at the mass of burning rubble_. _ The force of the explosion had already caused the building to cave in on itself. Anyone located in the lower floors would have been crushed underneath.

And if anyone jumped from the upper floors, then they would have ended up like Moriarty, broken and bleeding on the pavement.

Neither option was particularly comforting.

John shook his head wearily as he fought back the burning he felt from his eyes.

_Sherlock, I don't care how or why, but so help me, if you are dead, for real, then I'll never forgive you!_

* * *

_How did it come to this?_

He had not meant to come back to London. He would _never_ have come back to London, if he had a choice in the matter!

He originally planned on staying away. He wanted everyone to hate him so that no one would care enough to miss him.

The great Sherlock Holmes was supposed to die alone and unloved, as he had always been his entire life.

A fraud. A monster. A _freak._

_It was supposed to keep everyone safe._

Sherlock coughed up more blood as he crawled through the filth and mud. His hands traced the old brick and mortar, slick with slime and mold, as he continued his fruitless search.

It is so _cold_ here. And wet too. He was crawling in the abandoned sewers under London. To one side was the tunnel wall. On his other side was a trickling stream of water that traveled under the stone streets until it finally reached the Thames.

Sherlock did not particularly relish in being here at the moment, but it was necessary. He had to take this route or die when the building collapsed.

In a moment of inspiration (or desperation), Sherlock remembered the partially dislodged manhole from earlier. The one he almost tripped over and had spent time hiding it so that Moriarty wouldn't find it. Gropping blindly for a few moments, Sherlock had managed to find the manhole and pried the cover off. It was difficult, with finger slick with his sweat and blood, but he managed in the end.

Moving quickly, he succeeded grabbing onto the metal ladder and crawled down into the blackness below, pausing only to close the cover behind him.

A few seconds later, the entire ladder shook as the building above had finally collapsed on itself, causing Sherlock to lose his grip and fall backwards several feet. His head hit the floor below, and he lost consciousness again.

Upon waking after who-knows-how-long, he groggily crawled onto his feet, knowing instinctively that he had to find a way out.

But so far, he could find no exit anywhere.

It seemed that his escape had also become his tomb.

_Why was it so damned cold? _

His thin, malnourished frame shook as he continued crawling. He hadn't exactly been living healthy over the last year and a half.

Sure, he ate sometimes, to make Sheri eat. She could be incredibly stubborn sometimes, and thought that he should have to eat to.

But sometimes there was only enough food for one.

Sheri always resisted, but he made her eat, on the premise that she was still a child and growing, whereas he was an adult and unlikely to grow any taller. He did not regret any of those times, although his body was making him pay for it now, as he had lost at least two stones (or, as Sheri would say, twenty-eight pounds) since he had left home.

And when he returned to London, he was so focused on the case that he hardly ate anything at all.

He could feel the icy water as surely as if it was seeping into the very marrow of his bones, which felt brittle as an old man's. His vision swam, which was fine for now since he was in complete blackness. He couldn't see in front of him, so he navigated through the labyrinth under London's streets by touch.

Suddenly his arms, which were shaking uncontrollably, buckled under the weight of his body, and he found himself face-first in a pool of mud. Sherlock chocked and gasped as he struggled to keep from drowning in the shallow pool. He finally managed to raise himself up onto his elbows. Putrid water mixed with crimson blood as he stared out with glazed eyes into the darkness.

He couldn't go on like this. He needed a break. A brief rest. Then he would continue on.

Groping around in the darkness, he found a place near the side of the tunnel that was relatively free of standing water and settled there.

Taking short, ragged, gasps for oxygen, Sherlock rolled onto his side and paused for a moment to reflect how his plans had all came crashing down. He had faked his demise almost eighteen months ago when Moriarty had threatened three people who had somehow wormed their way into Sherlock's previously unfeeling heart.

Ms. Hudson, his landlady but not housekeeper.

Inspector Lestrade, who gave him cases and helped him get clean from drugs.

And John Watson, who had become the first true friend Sherlock ever had.

_Who knew that caring could hurt so much?_

As a child, he had always been alone. Misunderstood, tormented, bullied, Sherlock often wished for a friend but knew deep down that he was unworthy of having one. After so many years of trying, Sherlock had finally had enough of wishing for unattainable things.

Why invest so much just to be hurt over and over? It was better to feel nothing and need no one. Better to push people away before you became attached, just to have your heart trampled until it no longer existed.

He had fully expected the aftermath of the events at Bartholomew's Hospital to prove him right. After all, the majority of people are idiots, accustomed to relying on first impressions and determined to hold onto them. When reporters like Kitty Riley had printed scathing articles about him in the papers, he had fully expected for everyone to believe them and write him off as both a mistake and fraud.

Eventually his life and everything he had done would be dismissed and forgotten, and he would fade into obscurity.

Moriarty had counted on it too.

_Oh, how wrong they had both been!_

* * *

Time passed. It could have been a few minutes or a few hours. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. It hurt to think. He probably had a concussion, but he didn't know for sure. He was still bleeding, no matter how hard he held pressure to his wounds.

_How much blood does a human body have? How much does a person need to loose before he dies from shock?_

The answers should have come to his mind unbidden, but for the life of him he couldn't remember. Groaning, he tried to roll himself onto his stomach and back to his knees. Crippling pain caused him to cry out, and he bit his lip to cut off the noise. He flopped onto his back again and stayed completely still.

The pain, which had been like red hot daggers before, had receded to an all-consuming ache. Clutching his bloody hand to his side to lessen the flow of blood escaping from him, Sherlock pondered the next course of action.

Escape was no longer an option. He realized then that he was no longer capable of moving. Even if he could somehow ignore the pain, he was too weak from the blood loss to go forward. Fight was obviously out of the realm of possibility.

And he could forget about anyone coming to his aid. The only people who knew he was still alive were Moriarty's men.

Would Moriarty have a contingent of men ready to hunt him down, even after his death? _Possibly._ So anyone he met in the tunnels should be considered an enemy.

Everyone else believed him to be dead already and thus would not be aware of his predicament.

Wait! Didn't Mycroft know he was alive?

Sherlock wasn't sure. He couldn't remember much of anything, right now. Al he knew was that Moriarty could have sent his men down to capture him.

That left only two options. Die alone here or be captured by Moriarty's men, who were no doubt still hunting for him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and gritted his teeth in the darkness. No matter what happened, he would not cry out again and give his location away.

Better to die alone and in pain than being captured by _them_.

He already gave up everything else.

His home. His family. His friends. His work. His reputation. Even his life.

But he would be damned if he gave up his pride.

_It was the only thing he had left._

_He had made his decision_.

Sherlock instinctively curled into a ball to retain whatever warmth he could before the darkness swallowed him up. It wouldn't be long now. Soon, he would be dead, good for nothing except food for whatever bugs or rats that may live down here.

The reality of his pending death strangely brought nothing but relief. If Sherlock had any regrets, it was not being able to see those whom he actually felt for again.

If only to apologize for what he had done to them.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Bad times for Sherlock! He's dying, and no one knows where he is! And it sounds like he's giving up!

I'm not good with suspense, or angst! I hope I did a reasonable job at it!

And just so we are clear, Moriarty is _dead!_ Deceased! Gone! Kicked the bucket! Went to wherever he was supposed to go (that's a debate for another time)! There will be no miraculous return for him! So no worries there!

In a way, this chapter (and perhaps this whole story) is about solving the problems I had with the "Reichenbach Fall" episode. I wanted Moriarty to _know_ he was defeated, in the end. I wanted him to suffer the same way Sherlock suffered. I hope I did an adequate job with that. Tell me what you think!

But what about Sherlock? Who is going to help him? Or will he join Moriarty in death, as he promised?

Looks like we will have to wait and see!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own "Sherlock." However, I have finally admitted to myself that I need help, so I went to the nearest therapist I could find!

**Ella**-Alright, Peaceful Defender, let's begin! Can you tell me why you are here?

**Peaceful Defender**-Because I have issues?

**Ella**-_Exactly! _ Now, what was your childhood like?

**Peaceful Defender**-Uh, well, as far as that goes, my family was great! Still is! I had to struggle with being called stupid by some of my teachers...

**Ella**-So you had trouble focusing in school?

**Peaceful Defender**-Actually, no! I was making A's on tests, and I scored high enough on my I.Q. test to be labeled "gifted." But I had difficulty speaking. Turns out my vocal cords were damaged when I was young, and I had to have alot of speech therapy to talk normally.

**Ella**-So you are far more comfortable writing than you are talking?

**Peaceful Defender** (shrugs)-I guess so.

**Ella**-And yet you became an attorney. A profession where you are required to speak alot?

**Peaceful Defender**-_Yes!_ I'm a _masochist!_ I admit it!

**Ella**-No, I think this is important! Look at how you killed Moriarty...

**Peaceful Defender**-I didn't kill him! You heard Lestrade! He _jumped! _That's my story, and I am sticking to it!

**Ella**-You are driven by a sense of fair play, and you didn't like the ending of the "Reichbach Fall."

**Peaceful Defender** (gaping)-Did _anyone!?_

**Ella**-You wanted to punish Moriarty for his actions against Sherlock, so you wrote a story where Moriarty saw that the one thing he cared about was destroyed, and then had him die in the same way that he envisioned for Sherlock.

**Peaceful Defender** (thinking)-_Wow!_ You're pretty good. So you're saying that my lack of sleep, which lead me to write this story in the first place, is not because I am mentally imbalanced, but because I am driven by a sense of fair play, which was triggered when I watched a rerun of "Reichenbach Fall!"

**Ella**-_Well_, you are mentally imbalanced! There is no helping that! But yes, you are partially driven by a desire for fairness and equality.

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, while we are on the subject, why did my self-conscious come up with Chase and Clarky? What are _they_ manifestations of?

**Ella**-_Dammit,_ Peaceful Defender! I am a doctor, not a miracle worker!

**Peaceful Defender**-Ok, you _soooo_ stole that line from Dr. McCoy from "Star Trek!" No wonder John stopped seeing you! I think I will ask my readers to help me! Reviews, please!


	30. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty Nine: Losing Hope**

"Fear cannot be without hope, nor hope without fear." Baruch Spinoza

* * *

Anderson groaned as he wearily rubbed his eyes.

It had been a _long_ couple of days.

**Click.** _"Unidentified sources have confirmed that James Moriarty, a.k.a. James Morray, formerly from Dublin, Ireland, was found dead in a blaze that occurred in the early morning hours…"_

**Click.** _"Witnesses have told us that Sherlock Holmes, who reportedly had died last year, was responsible for stopping the latest attempt to abduct the daughter of Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador for …"_

**Click.** _"While there has been no official statement from the Metropolitan Police, sources indicate that Mr. Holmes has been positively identified through DNA evidence as the man who saved the life of Ms. Mary Morstan from the Satanic Slasher, the serial killer who is responsible for the deaths of at least twenty-three known victims since his reign of terror began six months ago…"_

**Click**. _"We at Channel Ten News have learned from unconfirmed sources that the London Metropolitan Police are asking for the public's help in locating the current whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes. These same sources emphasize that Mr. Holmes is not considered a suspect in any crime…"_

Anderson turned off the television with an exasperated sigh. "You think that if he is alive, he will believe that we are serious?"

"I doubt it!" Donovan muttered. "If I'm Sherlock, I'm probably thinking to myself '_Hmmm. Why is the Yard looking for me? And why do they keep saying that I'm not going to be arrested?_' Personally, I would run as far away from the Yard as I could!"

"We _do_ sound desperate, don't we?" Anderson groaned. "We might as well put up missing person flyers all over London! '_Excuse us, we are looking for a missing consulting detective. Black hair, blue eyes, six feet tall. Rude, obsessed with corpses, anti-social! A royal pain in the arse! Answers to the name of Sherlock Holmes. Have you seen him? Oh, and by the way, we arrested him for something he didn't do last year, so he may not be happy to see us!'_"

"Greg isn't doing too well." Donovan said flatly. "He's been up for so long, he practically collapsed in his office! Hopkins took him back to his flat a few hours ago. I think he is going to stay with him, just in case…"

_Just in case they find Sherlock's body._

Anderson nodded understandingly. "Stan will take care of Greg, Sally. Don't worry about him."

Donovan sighed dejectedly.

Anderson looked around the break room, hoping to come up with something to get Donovan's mind off their boss. "Hey! Do you realize we are _exactly_ where we were a year ago? Last year, you and I were in here, when that damned tape aired!"

"I remember." Donovan said, her voice flat. "One of the worst nights of my life."

Anderson sighed. _Now he just succeeded in making Donovan feel worse! _ "Leave it to the Freak to make us go through an encore!"

Donovan nodded absently, her eyes stern. "That bastard better not be dead! He better not put Greg through all of that again! And what about Sheri? How do you tell a little girl that she is an _orphan_, Sil?" Donovan asked, her voice hitching slightly. "I can't _believe_ I'm saying this! I really can't! But after talking to Sheri, and Claudette…_bloody hell_, who would have thought _Sherlock_, of all people, would be good with children?!"

Anderson grimaced, trying to think of something positive to say. "It won't come to that! Sherlock will probably waltz in here any second, acting like nothing has happened, and simultaneously calling us idiots from now until eternity! He's probably just waiting for the right moment."

Donovan cracked a shaky grin. "Yeah! That Freak always loves to make an entrance!"

* * *

"Alright, people!" Chase yelled out as he jumped up on the hood of one of the patrol cars parked outside, so that he could be visible. "_Listen up!_"

Despite the rain, many people showed up for this impromptu "search party." As before, word was passed along, through the web, via cell phones, and even from word of mouth. And as before, exactly one year ago, people were united in a cause.

It was over the same man. But it was for a different cause.

The mixed group of veteran Sherlockians, Homeless Network, and private citizens looked curiously at the black-clad American as he waved his hands to get everyone's attention.

"Ok, everyone! Here's the spill! We are looking for one missing consulting detective, who was last seen at approximately eight o'clock last night! That was almost fourteen hours ago! Average foot speed over uneven ground barring injuries is 4 miles-per-hour. That gives us a radius of...you know what, I can't do the math! But we know that he has to be somewhere in London!"

This statement was met with complete silence as people looked at each other curiously.

_What the hell was this guy going on about?_

"What I want from each and every one of you is a hard-target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, hen house, out house and dog house in this area! Checkpoints go up at fifteen miles! Your consulting detective's name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Go get him!"

As the crowd started to organize itself into smaller groups, Chase jumped off the car with a flourish, only to find himself face to face with Skylar, who looked annoyed at her friend's antics.

Chase grinned, oblivious. "I saw that on the movie 'The Fugitive' and I always wanted a chance to say it!"

Skylar's eyes narrowed. "Your eyes are dilated, and you are shaking like a leaf! Have you been drinking _coffee_ and _Red Bull_ again?"

"Uh…" Chase stammered, looking for an excuse. "_Well,_ I was up all night, helping the DMP get the system back and all!"

Skylar groaned as she shook her head. A caffeine-enriched Chase meant that this was going to be a _long_ day.

* * *

"_**You didn't think you could get rid of me that easy, did you?"**_

Sherlock's eyes shot open.

_Moriarty! _

_Where the hell was he?_

Ignoring the burning in his throat, Sherlock raised his neck to glance around. How long had he been lying there? The tunnel was so dark now that he couldn't see anything. He was _lost _in the dark, alone.

_No. Not alone._

Desperately, he struggled to rise to his knees, only to find he was completely immobile.

"_**Oh, no need for that, Sherlock. I heard you down here, and I thought you would like some company!"**_ A voice whispered in the back of his mind. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Moriarty's mocking, sing-song tone.

"_You're dead! _Go away!" Sherlock yelled out. It sounded weak, even with the echoing effect. How _did _that bastard survive, anyway? "I saw you fall!"

"_**I can't die, Sherlock. You know that! Besides, I saw you fall too, remember? I wonder how many nightmares Johnny boy went through, after seeing you covered in blood, splattered all over the pavement." **_Moriarty's cool voice purred, sending chills down Sherlock's spine. It had an unreal tone to it, seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere, all at once.

"_**Well, it's just you and me, my love! Just like you said. Oh, the games we could play! Do you like games, Sherlock?" **_Moriarty's voice whispered back.

"Piss off!" Sherlock rasped. He made another desperate bid to get up from the cold, dank water that lapped around him.

"_**Oh, are you hoping Johnny Boy will come save you? Whatever happened to that logical deduction you are so fond of? Do you really think he will forgive you? And what will you do when he tells you what an arrogant, selfish, uncaring, psychopathic bastard you are! And how he was doing just fine and already moved on when you suddenly showed up again!" **_Moriarty giggled in the darkness.

His words twisted deeply into Sherlock's soul, hurting more than any torture ever could.

"_Shut it!" _Sherlock screamed. "If you are going to kill me, then get it over with! Stop trying to talk me to death! You _disgust_ me!"

"_**Not nearly as much as you disgust others, Sherly! Johnny Boy has finally found a woman now. He has a new job and a new life. He's moved on and already forgotten you. Oh, he may have said nice things about you before, but that was before he learned you tricked him. What kind of sick freak makes his best friend watch as he fakes his suicide?" **_

"_Damn you! SHUT UP!"_ Sherlock raged.

Suddenly, something closed around his throat. In the darkness and the dank smell of the sewers, Sherlock couldn't tell what had him. He twisted weakly in his captor's grip, but couldn't find anything.

"_**You don't look too good, Sherlock. But don't worry, my pet! I have no intention of killing you. Not at all! Because you are going to pay for what you did. Do you know how long it takes to network, to build my little business? And you had to go and ruin it, didn't you? But don't worry. I know some people who specialize in teaching people how to behave. And that's what I'm going to do to you, Sherlock. I'm going to break you."**_

Sherlock struggled violently. His breath became ragged as he fought to free himself. He would rather _die_ than become Moriarty's prisoner!

He saw what Moriarty did to people he didn't like!

And the images of those people, bodies broken, staring forward but not seeing anything…

"_**Maybe after I'm done, I'll send what's left to Mycroft! And what about big brother, hmm? You think he is finally going to have you committed, just like you have always feared he would? When I'm done, he will be in a hurry to sign the papers! In a few days you will be whisked away in a strait jacket to a nice padded cell!"**_

_SHUT! THE HELL! UP!_ Sherlock screamed.

"_**Do you think little Sheri will have a difficult time, being the daughter of the Freak? I do hope the other kids don't tease her too much. Because children can be so cruel sometimes, don't you agree, Sherlock? That is, if she doesn't end up in foster care. Since she is so much like you, I doubt anyone will want her. Maybe I can take her off your hands!"**_

"_FUCKING BASTARD!"_ Sherlock wheezed. "Don't you _dare_ touch her!"

"_**None of this would have happened had you been a good boy and just jumped, Sherlock. You would have saved everyone, including yourself, so much pain. But NO, you had to play your own game to show how clever you are. And now you will know how much they all truly hate you! I mean, they turned against you before, remember? And now you go and disappoint them. Just admit it, Sherlock! That they wish you had died too! YOU FREAK!" **_

"_NO!"_

"_**But before I am done with you, I will let you watch as I give the order. Bang! Greg goes. Bang! Your landlady. Bang! Little Johnny Boy. And there is nothing you can do to save them!"**_

Suddenly, Moriarty's face was within inches of Sherlock's. His dark, soulless eyes mad with glee, his face bruised and bleeding. His breath was slightly foul as he whispered into Sherlock's ear as invisible hands, probably belonging to Moriarty's remaining henchmen, held him prisoner.

"_**I'm going to burn the heart out of you!"**_

"_NOOOOO!"_

* * *

Trembling, Sherlock jerked himself out of the nightmare, gasping for breath.

_Where was he? Why couldn't he see anything?_

"_**Sherlock.**_"

Sherlock froze, ignoring the pain radiating through all points of his body.

Of all the voices, this was certainly the_ last one_ he had ever expected to hear!

"_Danielle?_"

"_**It's me, Sherlock."**_

"Danielle? _How…_"

"_**Sherlock, as much as I love conversing, I need you to come with me! Your enemies are nearby! They are following us! I need you to get on your feet, and follow me. I know where to get out of here!**_**"**

Sherlock groped around blindly, not seeing anything. His questing hand finally found the wall. Damp brick. The smell of mold was prevalent.

He was somewhere under London. In the sewers.

Running from Moriarty's men.

"Where _are_ you, Dani? I can't see you!"

"_**I'm with you. But we need to go! Now! Just follow my voice.**_**"**

Pulling himself up to his feet, Sherlock gasped as his head swam. He stumbled, and grasped the wall for support. "I can't…"

"_**You can! So get up!**_**"**

"You're dead." Sherlock whispered. He peered blearily into the inky blackness.

"_**So are you!**_**"** Danielle's voice retorted. Her clear laugher, so different from her brother's, rang in his ears. **"**_**I saw it in the papers. You jumped off a building! So it must be true, right?**_**"**

"What are you doing here, then? How did you fake your death?" Sherlock mumbled, then staggered forward in the direction of the voice.

"_**Now, Sherlock! I can't tell you everything! You'll have to figure it out yourself. And as to why I am here…I'm keeping my promise. A monster's promise to a freak, remember? Now get up! Because I'm not leaving till you do!**_**"**

* * *

The next few (_Minutes? Hours? Days? Years?)_ would forever remain somewhat confused and muddled in Sherlock's mind.

Above him, he could hear the steady pitter-patter of something, and he realized that somewhere above him, separated through several feet of concrete, it was raining. Even if his ears were playing tricks on him (and he still couldn't discount the possibility), the proof was lapping at his feet.

The water was rising.

Already, it rose past his ankles. If he passed out and fell forward, there was a distinct possibility he would drown.

Assuming blood loss and hypothermia didn't claim him first.

He remembered walking, or stumbling along, grabbing the wall for support. The blood that continued to trickle from his various wounds felt cooler than it did earlier. His feet, submerged in water and sludge, were completely numb. The piercing cold air seeped into his soaked clothing, causing him to shake uncontrollably.

And the pain. Everything hurt now. With every beat of his heart, every gasping breath, his thin, abused frame convulsed as a million nerves screamed in protest.

After a while, he wondered if he had always existed with this pain, if there was ever a time that he was without it.

Come to think of it, who was he, again? Why was he walking, when all he wanted to do was go to sleep? Where was he going?

Yet every time he stopped, the voices began yelling at him again.

"_Get up, Freak!"_

"_Dammit, Sherlock. Are you high again?"_

"_I am disappointed, little brother. To think you have fallen this low."_

"_Dad, I thought you were coming back for me! You promised!"_

"_Did you really think you can hide from me, Sherlock. I will find you, and I will burn the heart out of you!"_

"_What on earth have you done to yourself this time? And why are you tracking mud everywhere? I am your landlady, not your house keeper!"_

"_Well, Sherlock! Never thought you would keep a girl waiting."_

"_Why did you leave me, Sherlock? Didn't you trust me?!"_

And then _she_ would start again. That insistent voice, authoritative and encouraging, all at once. **"**_**Get up, Sherlock! You have to!**_**"**

And each time, he would force himself on, one painful step at a time, towards some unknown destination.

* * *

Outside, night had come again. The rain continued to fall, becoming steadily harder as it fell upon London.

Clarky sighed as he wearily rubbed his eyes. He had gotten little sleep over the last forty-eight hours, and yet here he was, back at the Yard!

Technically, he was not on shift, but he was waiting for Donovan and Anderson to get off in about ten minutes, so that he could drive them around so that they could search for Lucky together.

_At least he wasn't in that building when it collapsed! _ Clarky reflected.

After the fire had _finally_ burnt itself out, Clarky, Anderson, and several other forensic investigators, along with several cadaver dogs, searched the ruins, but were unable to find another charred body.

Despite the fact that it often irritated him to not find a missing person, the knowledge that Lucky was not in the building was one time that Clarky was immensely thankful that he didn't find anyone.

But the question remained. CCTV video footage, provided by Lucky's super-creepy brother, showed Lucky entering the building twenty minutes before Moriarty arrived. Then, about five minutes later, the building practically exploded.

Baxley, the traitor amongst their ranks, admitted during interrogation that he was supposed to plant an explosive at the Metropolitan Police Department the night before, and that Moriarty was planning to detonate it.

However, Sherlock had taken it with him.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that Lucky decided to deliver the bomb back to Moriarty.

The lack of DNA and trace evidence near where the bomb was indicated that Lucky was not in the immediate area where the bomb was located, which suggested that Lucky did not blow himself up in the process.

_Thank God for small favors! _

But the fact remained that Lucky was not seen leaving the building, either by witnesses or by the CCTV footage. And yet the forensic evidence showed that Lucky did not die in the fire.

_So where the hell was he?_

Clarky suddenly smirked as he remembered his dear Grandma Lily, the woman who raised him after both of his parents died in a tragic car accident when he was eleven. She was a very superstitious person. If she ever got thirteen cents back for change, for example, she would always "accidentally" leave the change on the store counter and walk out without it. And she avoided black cats as if they had rabies!

He could imagine Grandma Lily's thoughts on the case of the mysteriously disappearing Lucky.

"_I tell ya, Clarky! It was a ghost! You was dealing with a ghost this whole time!"_

Suddenly, the elevator door opened, and a familiar person stepped out.

Or_ stumbled_ out, if one wished to get technical about it.

"_John?_ What are you still doing here?! I thought you went home!" Clarky asked incredulously as he took in the appearance of the groggy and disheveled doctor, who stumbled forward, his face a grim mask.

John mumbled angrily under his breath as he strolled forward, not even bothering to acknowledge the forensics expert. Curious and concerned, Clarky followed behind him as he made his way towards the High Crimes Division.

* * *

The place was a flurry of activity. All around him, various employees and officers were engaged in taking calls (most of them being "Sherlock Sightings"), as well as checking on various leads.

Not bothering to notice any of the activity around him, John marched angrily towards the offices belonging to the Inspector Detectives. He came to a stop in front of Lestrade's office and barged in without even knocking. Clarky followed close behind, concerned that the doctor's attitude was a precursor to potential mayhem.

The office wasn't empty. Several men in suits and concealed weapons were gathered around. That woman, _Melissa_ or _Anthea_ or whatever she called herself, was sitting on the couch, working tirelessly on that Black Berry of hers.

Clarky realized at that moment that he had never once seen the alluring woman without it and wondered briefly if it was somehow surgically attached to her hand.

John ignored all of them. Instead, he focused his entire attention on the government official, who had taken up residence behind Lestrade's desk. "_You bastard!_"

Clarky watched as Mycroft paused to look up from his laptop. The man, surprisingly, looked polished and unfazed, which Clarky found somewhat disturbing. "Ah, John. Good evening." Mycroft said pleasantly. "If you don't mind, I am rather occupied at present…"

"You interfering, hypocritical, egotistical prat!" John hollered at the top of his lungs. "_You drugged me!_"

"And why would I do that, John?" Mycroft raised his eyebrow, as if he was genuinely surprised.

"Because you didn't want me to go search for your brother, that's why!" John shot back.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in mild amazement (or so it seemed to Clarky). "Correction, John. I didn't want you to engage in the search until you had a proper rest. Now that you have…"

John balled up his fists. "Look outside, Mycroft! It's almost nine-thirty at night! _Sherlock is still out there!_"

"And you really think that by causing harm to yourself, you would help find him?" Mycroft dropped his polite tone. Now his voice had an edge of steel in it. "Had you gone out there, John, you would have collapsed from exhaustion and would have required assistance from people who would otherwise be engaged in the search for Sherlock! How _exactly_ is that assisting my brother?"

The two men glared at each other from opposite ends of the room, the tension a live thing between them.

"_You had no right!_" John muttered darkly.

"I had _every_ right! As you recall, the Inspector himself had to be carried out of here because he was too deluded to look to his own health! If anything had happened to you due to your own stubbornness, then Sherlock would never forgive me!" Mycroft shot back, his knuckles grounding into Lestrade's battered desk.

"_Okay!_" Clarky said with false cheerfulness, clapping his hands together once. "Well, actually, Donovan, Anderson, and I are on our way to join the search! We are going to ride around, maybe search some areas that Lucky may have run off to." Clarky smiled winningly at John. "Say, John, since you know Lucky so well, why don't you join us?"

John stared at Clarky, who somehow managed to keep the friendly smile plastered on his face while simultaneously making a quick prayer to God Almighty that he could somehow get John out of there without undue bloodshed.

"_Fine!_" John replied shortly. "Let's go!" Storming past the American, John strolled out of the office, but not before shooting one last glare in Mycroft's direction and slamming the door behind him.

Clarky sighed in relief as he rubbed his hand through his hair. He glanced over at Mycroft, who regarded the forensic pathologist impassively.

"Did you _really_ drug him?" Clarky asked, gesturing towards John's retreating form.

"A sedative. In his coffee." Mycroft explained. "After the unfortunate collapse of the Inspector earlier, I felt it best for John to take a brief respite. He has been resting in one of the offices downstairs."

"_Okay…_" Clarky rolled his eyes. "Note to self! _Never_ except beverages from man with power complex!" He glanced over towards Not-Anthea. "Note to name-confused personal assistant! Get boss to shrink at first opportunity, as boss needs some professional help!"

It was a mark of their professionalism that not one of Mycroft's underlings so much as cracked a smile.

"_Hmm_. Tough room! Usually, I can rely on my good looks and humor to break the tension. I must be slipping!" Clarky remarked.

"I take it you were serious." Mycroft stated. "About going out to look for Sherlock."

Clarky nodded. "Yep! I am hopeful that maybe John can think of somewhere that Lucky can be. But don't worry about John. We'll keep him safe! Scout's honor!" Clarky said, giving Mycroft a mock salute. Then he quickly made his exit in order to find John and get him away from the Met before John changed his mind and came back to strangle Lucky's creepy brother.

* * *

How long had he been walking? Was he even walking anywhere? Or was he a ghost, damned forever to wonder the London sewers, desperately seeking an exit that didn't exist?

He plunged forward again, yet still remained on his knees. He coughed up another mouthful of blood, then moaned incoherently.

_Why couldn't he just rest?_

**"**_**You are almost there, Sherlock.**_**"**

Groggily, he looked up. And found Danielle standing in front of him.

Danielle Morray. The way she had been when they first met. Her hair was full, rich, and vibrant again, like gleaming copper. Her eyes, those strange golden-brown eyes, radiated concern as she stood over him.

She was wearing her trademark brown leather jacket over a light-colored shirt and a pair of jeans. Unlike him, she seemed completely unaffected by the cold.

**"**_**Look in front of you, Sherlock.**_**"** Danielle prompted. **"**_**Hold your hand out. Tell me what's there!**_**"**

Sherlock looked at Danielle stupidly for a moment. The rest of the tunnel was so dark. He couldn't see anything. Bloody hell, he couldn't see his own hand, even though it was inches from his face!

And yet he could see Danielle.

"I'm hallucinating, aren't I?" Sherlock mumbled wearily as realization dawned on him. "You're not really here. You never were!"

Danielle frowned in annoyance. _**"You're right. I'm not really here! Maybe you are hallucinating after that bump you got on your head! Or maybe I am an angel, sent to help you! Or maybe I am a piece of undigested beef!"**_

Sherlock stared up at her uncomprehendingly. "I haven't eaten anything in several days."

Danielle sighed. "_**Let me guess! You have either never read 'A Christmas Carol,' or you deleted it from your memory! But it doesn't really matter, does it? But that doesn't mean you shouldn't listen to me! Now get up that ladder!"**_

"Ladder?" Sherlock whispered questioningly.

**"**_**Feel in front of you! If you don't want to die down here, then you need to climb up! You will find a manhole at the top.**_**"**

That insistent _you-can-do-it-if-you-try_ attitude was so annoying, and it was grating on Sherlock's already-frayed nerves. "Why don't you _leave_, then!"

**"**_**How can I leave if I am a hallucination?**_**"** Danielle retorted, crossing her arms in front of her.

Sherlock felt a pang of guilt go through his chest.

_That gesture…it reminded him so much of Sheridan. _

Danielle frowned, as though sensing Sherlock's thoughts. **"**_**You made a promise to our daughter, Sherlock! And you are going to keep that promise!**_**"**

"_I never asked for a daughter!_" Sherlock croaked at Danielle, feeling his anger, irrational as it was, rise in his chest. "I _never _wanted a child! You _know_ that, Dani!"

Danielle cocked her eyebrow at him. **"**_**You didn't want a friend, either! Isn't that what you said? Caring is a disadvantage? Chemical on the losing side? And blah blah blah! And yet now you have several people you care about, and one very good friend!**_**"**

"_Who are all better off without me!_" Sherlock shot back angrily.

Danielle was merciless in her prompting. **"**_**Nevertheless, they exist! Just like Sheridan! And now that you have them! Do you really want to give them up?**_**"**

Sherlock didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

"_**I thought so.**_**"** Danielle nodded, satisfied. **"**_**Now start climbing! Because I won't leave you alone until you do!**_**"**

* * *

"So where's your car?" Donovan asked Clarky, looking around the mostly deserted parking lot.

"Over there." Clarky answered, pointing to the green Ford parked several meters away.

"Of course! The redneck decides to make us walk! _Bloody hell_, Clarky! Do you _always_ have to park so far away?" Anderson grumbled as he buttoned up his coat to protect himself from the chilly air. The rain had continued to pour down outside, showing no sign of letting up. But at least here, in the Met's underground parking lot, they were protected from the rain.

"I need the exercise, Anderson! Keeps me fit!" Clarky answered easily. "Besides, Lucky's creepy government brother took the best places near the elevator. Came in that damn Rolls Royce this morning, then marched into Greg's office as if he owned the place!"

"He probably does." John muttered despondently. After his outburst in front of Mycroft, John lapsed into a brooding silence that made Clarky, Donovan, and Anderson distinctly uneasy.

"So, John, where should we drive to first?" Clarky said as they continued walking towards Clarky's car. "Do you have any idea where Lucky could be held up at?"

John pursed his lips together in thought. "I've been thinking about that. I want to go to a couple of places where members of the Homeless Network tend to stay. Perhaps they know something."

"Sounds good to me!" Donovan said, pulling her coat tighter around her. "Although it will probably be best if I stay in the car. They don't like me too much."

John frowned. "You're with us, so they have no reason for them to be hostile. And if they are, then they can have words with me!"

Donovan grinned slightly. She had no reason for John's loyalty at the moment, and she was truly grateful for it. "Thanks, John."

Clarky coughed. "I can't wait for the day that we get to sit down and you all can tell me more about everything that's happened before I got here! I hate being kept in the dark!"

"We didn't keep it from you on purpose, Clarky!" Anderson protested. "It was just something we were not too happy about! We didn't really want to talk about it amongst ourselves!"

Clarky sighed. "I guess you're right! Still, I need to know the office gossip around here! If anything, it's an excuse to head to the pub one day!" Clarky reasoned. He shuddered slightly against the biting wind and quickened his stride. "Now, let's quit wasting daylight and get going!"

Anderson frowned. "It's nighttime!"

Clarky glared back at Anderson. "It's an _expression!_"

* * *

It took several trips, but Sherlock finally succeeded in climbing up the ladder, despite the obstacles he had to deal with. For one, the metal was so cold that Sherlock lost all feeling in his hands. It was also slippery, and he fell several times back into the frigid water, only to bite back a scream and climb again.

He was also fighting a losing battle with his own transport. Weakness, disorientation, dizziness, rapid pulse, shortness of breath. He knew the symptoms. He was going into shock, followed by a possible coma and death from blood loss.

Personally, he was surprised he held out this long.

Danielle was gone. After she practically harassed him to attempt the arduous climb, she disappeared. All the other voices had grown silent too, as though they were all watching him, to see if he somehow managed to escape Death again, or if he would finally accept the inevitable.

Yet if there was one thing Sherlock hated, it was being told what was expected of him.

He may die, but that didn't mean he would surrender quietly.

After several agonizing attempts, he finally reached the top rung. Blinking against the darkness, he grouped blindly with one hand, vainly feeling the tell-tale grooves of the manhole above.

If he could just get past it, he would probably find himself on one of London's streets. Surely someone would pass by! Surely someone could help him!

Regardless, he didn't want to die here!

But the manhole refused to budge. Either it was stuck, or something was sitting on top of it.

Cold realization gripped him, so painful after that brief flicker of hope he felt when he reached the top.

He was trapped. Trapped in the darkness and decay. Trapped to slowly become one with London's underground, unmourned and unburied.

His arms were starting to shake as his strength leached out of him. Quickly, he looped his elbows around the side of the ladder, choking on his own terror. If he fell at this height, there was a very good chance he would not get up again.

Yet he had nothing left. He would not be able to climb back up another ladder or continue through the labyrinth of mud and mold.

Yet even now, the inner core that was Sherlock refused to give up. He would play the game against Death, just as he did against Moriarty, until there were no other moves left!

Biting his lip to keep from screaming as more pain shot through him, Sherlock reached into his pocket.

_Time to play my last card!_

The hand grenade that he had confiscated from Baxley, along with the bomb that ultimately caused Moriarty's death.

Why the Yarder felt the need to carry a grenade around with him was beyond Sherlock's comprehension. Sherlock tried to deduce the reason for a few minutes after he had found it, but then gave it up as a lost cause. Sherlock worked in logic, reason, and Baxley's choice of exploding devices was far from logical.

The only possible reason he could think of was that Baxley, being one of the few members left in Moriarty's employment, probably kept the grenade on him at all times, just in case Moriarty accused him of turning traitor and tried to torture or kill him. But there really was no way of knowing for sure.

But Baxley's asinine motives might benefit him, if he could somehow take advantage of the situation.

Fumbling desperately, Sherlock focused the last of his willpower and concentration on securing the grenade under the manhole with the last of the electrical tape that he had the foresight to pack in the suitcase with the pipe bombs he made earlier.

_The last time he saw Sheri..._

It wasn't easy, as his hands with slick with sludge and blood. He almost dropped the grenade twice. Added to his troubles was the fact that he had to do it all in complete darkness.

Finally, taking far much longer than it should have had, it was done. The grenade was secure on the underside of the manhole. If it worked, then he could hopefully crawl out of this putrid grave in which he found himself and die in the open air.

And if it _didn't_ work, then he would die down here.

Groggy, weak, and half-frozen, Sherlock wearily pulled the pin out of the grenade. Knowing he had little time to waste, he gripped the edges of the ladder and allowed gravity to let him make a rapid descent to the bottom.

At some point, his hands slipped, and he plummeted the rest of the way down. Despite the overwhelming exhaustion and pain, a memory came back with startling clarity as he fell.

_The cool air blowing through his coat as he rushed to meet the pavement outside Bart's. Although he had everything planned out, his breath caught in his throat as he fell, and his heart beat rapidly, as though it was trying to jump out of his chest to save itself from its owner's self-destructive activities…_

A different landing met him this time. His head hit the bottom of the tunnel floor. Coated as it was with mud, gunk, and water, it did little to cushion the blow, and the pain was such that it eclipsed the pain everywhere else.

Using his last bit of awareness, Sherlock ignored the crippling agony and drug himself several feet away on his knees and elbows, careful to keep his head above the water, which lapped at the gaping wound on his neck, causing a slight burning sensation. He held his breath, waiting for the grenade to go off.

There was nothing but silence.

With the failure of the grenade went Sherlock's last hope of salvation. Wearily, he rolled to his side and closed his eyes.

_So this is it!_ Sherlock thought in defeat. _I am actually going to die here. I'll never do another case with Greg, or yell at Donovan and Anderson for being imbeciles for making faulty assumptions! I'll never get to hear Mrs. Hudson fuss at me or steal Mycroft's security card again! I'll never see Sheridan grow up or chase criminals with John._

_And I'll never get the chance to make things right. _

And then, miraculously, _she_ was in front of him again, kneeling beside him.

"_**Hold on, Sherlock**_." Danielle whispered. **"**_**Just a little longer. Please!"**_

_Ah, Dani! I wish I could._

**"You_ may not be an angel, Sherlock. But you fight for our side. And we don't forget that."_**

_Please don't leave me to die alone! _Sherlock pleaded silently.

Dani shook her head as she started to fade away, her words being the last to disappear. **"I can't stay, Sherlock. I wish I could..."**

Unconsciousness enveloped him again, suffocating him in its finality. Because of this, Sherlock didn't hear the sound of the blast above him coming from the defective yet still-functioning grenade, nor did he see the faint light filtering from above.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _No! _ Dammit, Sherlock! You are not supposed to put us all in suspense like this! My readers are going to blame _me_ for this evil cliff hanger!

So, what did you think about Dani's miraculous return? Is she a hallucination, an angel, a ghost, or what? I will leave it to interpretation as to what she was, and why she was there, guiding Sherlock to..._wait! _

Where _did_ she lead him to, anyway? _Buckingham Palace?_

It wouldn't surprise me. I mean, we _did_ see Queen Elizabeth jump out of a helicopter during the Olympics during the Opening Ceremony, _right? _And there are worse places Sherlock could end up!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own "Sherlock!" And if he dies, it is not my fault!

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Whoa!_ _Time out! _ Is Sherlock going to die?

**Peaceful Defender**-_I don't know!_ I don't want him to!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Then why don't you write the ending where he lives, then?

**Peaceful Defender**-I would have, but seeing as how all of you, both the "Sherlock" characters and the original characters, have not done anything I have told you to do, and just went off and wrote your own damned story, and made me know that I don't own any of you...

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Oh!_ And that hurt your feelings, huh!

**Peaceful Defender** (sniffing)-In my original story, you were a lot smarter!

**OC Chase Douglas** (shrugs)-True, but I kind of like being carefree! And most writers don't know how their stories are going to end until they get to the end, you know?

**Peaceful Defender**-Then _why_ are you asking me now?!

**OC Chase Douglas**-_I_...good point. Well, can you at least tell us where Sherlock ended up? Under Hyde Park? Near Baker Street? I kind of like the idea of Buckingham Palace! Just as long as he doesn't steal the Queen's sheet or something!

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, I won't make my readers wait for the answer. One of them, chaoticmom, is going to lead a mob against me if Sherlock dies. And even though I don't know the answer to that, I can at least answer where he ended up.

**OC Chase Douglas**-So you are going to post two chapters?! _Again?! _ I don't think your readers like it when you do that! I think they _prefer_ the suspense!

**Peaceful Defender**-True, but I think they like it if I don't leave them in _too_ much suspense. So hopefully the readers will post reviews and let me know if they like or dislike the fact that I sometimes post two chapters. So let's hear from them!


	31. Chapter 30

**Chapter Thirty: Out of the Darkness**

"A dying man needs to die, as a sleepy man needs to sleep, and there comes a time when it is wrong, as well as useless, to resist." Stewart Alsop.

* * *

"What the _bloody hell_ was that?!" Anderson shrieked, his eyes wide in alarm.

"Don't ask _me_!" John snapped. Like the others, he panicked when he heard the loud explosion and instinctively crouched behind Clarky's car, his mind replaying similar situations he had faced in Afghanistan. "But it came from over there! Sounded like a bomb!"

Donovan stared off in the direction of the sound. "Isn't that the area where Mr. Holmes had his car parked?"

Clarky peered over his car, then fumbled with his keys. Like John, his green eyes were haunted, as though reliving his own experiences from the battlefield. "It's probably a terrorist! Or one of Moriarty's men!" Clarky looked over at Donovan. "_Sally!_ Get out your gun and _cover_ me!"

"_What?!_" Donovan gasped, but Clarky had already crawled over to the back of his car and hunched down behind it. Donovan saw him fumble with his keys again for a few moments before the boot opened with a loud "click."

Clarky cursed, eyes darting back toward the scene of the noise. Donovan bent down and crawled over to where Clarky was at, followed a moment later by Anderson and John.

"_What the bloody hell?_" Anderson squeaked in amazement as Clarky withdrew a semi-automatic pistol and was calmly putting a loaded magazine into the handle.

"Bastards don't know who they are dealing with if they think that can attack us at our own station!" Clarky said, looking grim. "So we are going to _teach_ them!"

"_You work for forensics!_" Donovan hissed. "You're not _authorized_ to carry a firearm!"

Clarky shrugged. "Remember what Stan said about us Americans? How we just _love_ to shoot things?"

"Oh _bloody hell!"_ Anderson whimpered.

Clarky snapped the magazine into place and looked at the other three. "Okay! I'm going over there and see if I can catch the bastards! You guys go back upstairs and get help!" Clarky said as he leaned against his car.

"_Are you crazy?!_ I'm not letting you to go out there alone!" John stated, his eyes narrowed with determination.

"You're a _civilian_, John!" Donovan protested.

John rolled his blue eyes in annoyance. "I am also an army medic! I know how to react in dangerous situations!"

"Then I'm going too!" Donovan responded.

"And I'll be _damned_ if I leave Sally here!" Anderson breathed out, earning him a shocked look from Donovan and a pair of bemused grins from Clarky and John.

"Fine, we _all_ go! Even John. He's got a point, anyways. There could be someone in need of medical care." Clarky observed. He turned to his colleague. "Sil, where is that gun I loaned you earlier?"

"Uh, _upstairs?_" Anderson whispered weakly.

Clarky shook his head, then grinned good-naturedly. "Hang on a second! I always carry at least three guns in my trunk!"

"_Trunk? Guns?!_" Donovan drawled out.

"Oh, yeah! '_Trunk_' is our word for '_boot_.' Ah! Here they are!" Clarky said happily as he withdrew a pair of pistols from his car. "John, you take the Beretta." He said, causally handing the pistol to John, who paused to check to make sure the safety was unlocked.

"Anderson, here's your weapon! It's a Smith and Wesson Sigma. Nine millimeter semi-automatic handgun. And it's already loaded!" With that, Clarky handed the gun to a rather pale and sick-looking Anderson, who handled the gun gingerly as though it were a snake.

"What the _bloody hell_ am I supposed to do with this?!" Anderson whispered.

Clarky closed the boot of his car in one swift motion and returned to his defensive position beside Donovan. "We discussed this last night, Anderson! Bad guys shoot at you. You pull back trigger and shoot back. Point and click! Easy! Even an eight year old can do it!"

"_Oh God!_" Anderson cried pathetically.

Clarky rolled his eyes before turning to the others. "Okay! On the count of three! I'm going to run to _that_ car." Clarky pointed to one of the few existing cars left in the underground parking garage. "Sally, you cover me. When I get into position, then you follow. Got it?"

Donovan nodded as she put her hand on Anderson's shoulder. "Got it!"

"Okay. One, two… _three_!" Clarky rushed out from behind his car and raced to the patrol car located fifty feet away. He made it without anyone taking a shot at him and hid behind one of the tires before motioning to the others to follow.

In this way, the group arrived to the scene of the explosion.

* * *

"What the _bloody hell?_" Donovan asked in disbelief as she surveyed the carnage.

Where once stood a beautiful black luxury Rolls Royce, there now was a burning mass of metal surrounded by smaller pieces of fiery debris. The car that Mycroft had arrived in was lying on its side approximately twenty feet away from the parking space, blown there by an as-of-yet unidentified source. One of the tires that had been blown off the car was now resting several meters away. Shattered glass and twisted pieces of metal littered the area.

"_Okay…_Someone _really_ doesn't like the DMP upstairs!" Clarky muttered.

Despite himself, John grinned at the mention of Mycroft's nickname before taking on a more-serious expression. "Thank goodness there was nobody in the car when it blew up!"

Clarky smirked as he glanced at John. "If you weren't with us, I would have thought _you _did it, John, to get back at Mycroft for drugging you earlier!" Clarky joked.

John chuckled. _If the car had belonged to anyone but Mycroft…_

"You think someone planted a bomb that went off too early?" Anderson wondered aloud.

Before anyone could comment, a strange noise suddenly sounded. It sounded human, almost like a whimper, yet strangely amplified, as it had an echo effect to it.

Clarky and John reacted instinctually as they raised their guns and crouched into a defensive position, guns pointed in opposite directions. Donovan ducked down and looked around for the source of the noise. Anderson froze as his eyes glazed over in sheer terror.

"What was _that_?" Donovan whispered.

"_Why_ do we keep asking that?" Clarky groaned. He quickly scanned the area. "I don't see any bodies around, and no one is down here but us! So where is it coming from?"

Another moan, even fainter than the last one, reverberated through the deserted garage. Donovan, John, and Clarky looked at each other, fear and confusion evident on their faces.

Suddenly, Anderson raced forward and crouched down near a manhole, which was situated exactly where the car was originally parked. Clarky noted, much to his chagrin, that the cover of the manhole was located a few inches away from the twisted wreck. He had just missed it because he took it for another piece of car wreckage.

Now he could see that the cover was twisted and burning, with most of the damage on the _underside_ of it, suggesting an explosive was placed under the manhole.

_Damn! I should have noticed that!_

"_Here_!" Anderson said in triumph, pointing to the gaping manhole and the darkness beyond.

* * *

Sally cautiously peered into the blackness. "If anyone is down there, you can come out now! This is the London Metropolitan Police! Identify yourself! _Don't make us come down there!_" Her voice, angry and authoritative, succeeded in masking her apprehension.

Whoever or whatever was making the noise had stopped, apparently deciding to decline her invitation.

"Maybe it was a rat?" Anderson whispered hopefully. "A big one?"

His comments drew disbelieving glances from his colleagues. "So the rats in London have nothing better to do than to go around and blow up cars belonging to members of England's government?!" Clarky asked incredulously.

"Maybe it's a visiting rat from _America!_" Anderson shot back.

This remark earned Anderson a smirk from Clarky who, as always, took insults in stride. "Then it looks like it's going to take an American to catch it! Too bad Smokey's not here! Even for a one-eyed cat, he's a good rat catcher. Oh, well! Anyone got a flash light?"

"What?" Anderson asked.

Clarky groaned as he searched his mind for the appropriate word. "A _torch_, then?"

"Yeah! Here!" Sally whispered as she reached into her pocket. On her key chain was a miniature light that she kept for emergencies.

"Good." Clarky said, taking a deep breath. "Shine it down, but be _careful_."

Turning on her light, Sally flinched as she reached her hand over the dark opening, expecting any minute that someone would take a shot at her. Cautiously, Clarky peered over the edge, while John trained his gun down the opening, intending to shoot should the opportunity arise. Anderson wisely held his own gun away from the others. His hands were visibly shaking.

"I don't see anyone! But that doesn't mean they aren't hiding!" Clarky said, voice low. Tearing off his coat despite the chill of the garage, he looked at the others. "Cover me while I go down there. When I reach the bottom, drop the flashlight down to me. And whatever you do, _don't_ shoot me!"

"_Whoa, mate!_ You aren't going down there alone!" John snapped. "I'm coming with you!"

"But what if someone _is_ down there, John?" Clarky asked.

"Then he will need medical attention by the time you and I are done with him!" John answered curtly, taking off his heavy coat. He didn't need it to get wet.

"_Fine!"_ Clarky conceded. "But let me take the lead."

"This is _crazy!"_ Donovan muttered.

"No. This is just another day on the job!" Clarky whispered before cautiously lowering himself down. "Wait till I reach the bottom, then follow me."

Silently, they waited as Clarky carefully climbed down the rungs of the metal ladder that led down to the floor of the tunnel below. Anderson continued to point the gun away from the edge, eyes peering fearfully into the darkness. His mouth was moving, but Sally couldn't tell if he was giving himself a silent pep talk or was just praying.

_At least he is not running away. That's something!_

Sally broke out of her musing when she heard a splash as Clarky reached the bottom. "_Damn!_"

"What?!" Anderson squeaked.

"As you Brits say, it's _bloody_ cold down here!" Clarky called up, his voice now echoing as a result to the reverberating walls of the storm drain below. "Throw down the light!" Clarky whispered urgently. Sally complied, and was satisfied when Clarky caught it with no trouble.

"Hang on, Clarky! I'm right behind you." John muttered.

"Be safe." Donovan told him.

John gave her a wiry grin. "I will! It is probably nothing down there. But if we find any bomb-making rats, Anderson can come down and say hello!"

"_Very _amusing, John." Anderson muttered, but he seemed too concerned to be truly exasperated by John's remark.

John took a deep breath and stepped down, finding the rungs of the ladder more by feel than by sight. When he lowered himself to each succeeding rung, the cold metal stung his unprotected skin of his palms. John shivered.

It was going to be _really_ cold when he reached the bottom.

* * *

Donovan sighed with relief when she heard the resounding splash as John reached the bottom of the ladder without slipping. She watched Clarky and John anxiously as they looked around the tunnel, the only light they had coming from one miniature torch. While John kept his gun ready, Clarky pointed the light in several directions before stopping in one place.

"Hang on! I see something!" Clarky took a couple of steps forward, his feet splashing in the frigid water below. "I think I see a body!"

"Is it dead?" Donovan inquired.

"Don't know. Can't tell from here! Hold on while we check!" John whispered.

Slowly, Clarky and John edged to the left and out of Sally's sight as they walked a few steps in the water, a resounding _splash, splash, splash_ echoing in the tunnels.

Then, silence.

"Guys?" Anderson whispered anxiously. After a minute, he leaned over the manhole. "_HELLO!?"_

"We're alright!" Clarky's familiar southern accent filtered up out of the darkness. "Someone's down here. A man. We can't tell if he is alive or not! He's bleeding pretty bad! But it's too dark to see much. Hold on!"

A moment passed as Donovan and Anderson huddled near the manhole's edge, not daring to breathe.

"_OH SHIT!_" Clarky suddenly shouted.

"CLARKY! TELL THEM TO GET HELP _NOW!_" John yelled.

Anderson gave out an involuntary screech while Donovan grabbed her gun and was preparing herself to jump down when she heard Clarky's voice again. Within seconds, a light shown through the manhole, illuminating the pale face of Clarky, whose panic-stricken expression could be discerned despite the distance and the darkness between him and his co-workers waiting anxiously above.

"ANDERSON!" Clarky shouted up. "Go call for the ambulance or bus or whatever the hell you Brits call it over here! And get whatever medical equipment you can find! Blankets, bandages, medical kit, anything! I should have something in my trunk! I didn't lock it, so it should pop open! Donovan, I'm going to throw you the light! Stay there and shine it down here while I help John pull him out of here! _Got it!?_"

Donovan was shocked. "_What?!_"

"It's LUCKY!" Clarky yelled up. "He's down here!"

"_Sherlock!?_" Anderson asked incredulously. "Are you sure?!"

"Either that or Lucky bears a resemblance to your bomb-making rats!" Clarky rejoined.

"What the _bloody hell_ is he doing down there, then?!" Anderson shot back.

"If he lives, I'll be sure to ask him!" Clarky yelled, his voice reverberating through the tunnels. "Right now he looks like he is in shock! If we don't get him out of here now, he's not going to make it! _NOW MOVE IT!_"

* * *

_He was floating. Free from everything. _

_His past. His pain. His loneliness. _

_His body, his transport, had finally given out. There was nothing left but to go forward. _

_ Sherlock looked off in the distance, towards the light. It seemed so warm, and welcoming. A respite from the coldness that surrounded him from all sides._

_ For the first time in a long while, Sherlock felt unbound curiosity, as well as a deep longing. Why shouldn't he explore what awaited him? Hadn't he done enough to keep his friends safe? Had he not cheated death already? _

_Wasn't it his time to go?_

_**"Sherlock!"**_

_ Sherlock stopped his forward progress. John? Out here? How could that be?_

_**"Dammit, Sherlock! Don't you dare die on me!"**_

_ John!_

_What am I doing? John is out here somewhere! _

_I can't leave him out here!_

_ Sherlock took a last look at the light before him, still waiting in the distance. _

_He wanted to go on. _

_But he didn't want to leave John. Even if it meant being trapped again in unending darkness and pain._

_ He only needed to hold out a little longer. If John was trapped out here, he needed to find him first._

_ Despite his inclination, he slowly moved away from the light, and back into the all-consuming blackness. Towards the direction where he last heard John's voice._

* * *

Hours later, Clarky turned the styrofoam cup over and over, trying to let the heat from the coffee transfer to his chilled hands. He already drank two cups to warm himself up when he arrived, but he still couldn't seem to dispel the chill.

_And to think I was only down in that tunnel for a few minutes. How Lucky managed to survive I'll never know!_

Although there was serious doubt that Sherlock would survive the night.

It probably would have been better to wait till more people came before moving the unconscious man out of the tunnel and up the metal ladder, but by the time Clarky had finished shouting orders to Donovan and Anderson, John had already maneuvered Sherlock's prostrate form over one of his shoulders and was carrying him on his back toward the ladder.

Clarky had offered to take Sherlock, but John, almost beside himself in panic, refused to part with his friend, so Clarky contented himself by following the doctor up the ladder, in case John should slip. But the army doctor practically sprinted up the rungs at a speed that put Clarky to shame.

If Sherlock had looked bad in the darkness in the tunnels, he looked almost corpse-like in the pale florescent light in the parking garage. He was soaked to the skin, with his raven hair plastered to his head. Under the blood and mud covering him, his skin was slightly blue, and seemed to have a translucent quality to it, as though almost all the life was drained from Sherlock's body, and there was hardly anything left.

Although the man was ice-cold to the touch, he wasn't shivering, which was _never_ a good sign.

They needed to warm him up, and quickly.

When Anderson came racing back, hauling an old quilt and a first aid kit Clarky kept in his car, they had already peeled back Sherlock's ruined coat and shirt. That's when they discovered the gunshot wound to his side.

Clarky shook his head as he reflected on the memory. If it hadn't been for John's medical know-how and level-headedness, Sherlock probably wouldn't have even lasted long enough to survive the trip to the hospital, much less to make it to surgery. Even when he and Anderson just stood there is horror, and Donovan had burst into tears, John went into _commando mode_ and got everyone to focus again.

He had directed Clarky to put pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding while Sally kept Sherlock's legs elevated. He also ordered Anderson to run to the front of the entrance of the parking in order to direct the ambulance to the right location.

When the ambulance arrived a few minutes later, followed immediately by a security team and a _very_ concerned government official, John had managed to wrap up a few of Sherlock's other wounds to keep the bleeding to a minimum.

_It was at that point that Sherlock suddenly stopped breathing…_

Clarky sighed and glanced over at Donovan and Anderson, who were seating in chairs directly opposite of him. They sat dejectedly side by side, not seeming to notice anything going on around them. Both of them had minute traces of blood on their clothes from handling Sherlock earlier.

Clarky himself had a huge blood stain on the front of his sweater. It was so bad that when Clarky walked in, the nurse in admissions took one look at him before she tried to call for a team to tend to Clarky before he was able to convince her that he was not injured.

All in all, Clarky thought that he and his co-workers looked like they were extras in a horror movie.

Donovan had called Hopkins on the way to the hospital to let him know what happened, but she was in such a state of distress that she could barely get the words out, so Anderson took the phone from her and relayed the recent events to Stan, who, along with Lestrade, promised to meet them there as soon as possible.

Clarky was shaken out of his thoughts when the door to the waiting room suddenly flew open, revealing two anxious women, Molly and Mary. After he drove Anderson and Donovan to the hospital, Clarky took it upon himself to call Molly to let her know what happened and asked her to bring some clean clothes for him, since he did not foresee leaving the hospital for a few hours at least, and he _certainly_ didn't want to go around looking like an ax murderer and scaring the hospital staff.

"_Clarky!_" Molly said, rushing over to envelop him in a hug. Anderson managed to catch Clarky's eye before giving him a knowing smirk. Clarky rolled his eyes at Anderson before gently parting himself from Molly, who wordlessly handed him two sweatshirts.

"Thanks, Molly. I'll be back in a second. Let me change out of this." Clarky said, indicating his blood-stained attire.

"Is that…" Mary asked, turning pale.

Clarky nodded sadly before rushing out of the room. "I'll be right back."

* * *

It took only a second to take off his ruined sweater and put on the sweatshirt. Molly brought him two: a black fleece one and an orange "University of Tennessee" one. He chose the black one because it was warmer. He took too long a time holding his blood-stained sweater and debated whether he should throw it away in the nearest garbage bin or whether he should try to save it for the cleaners.

After finally deciding to hold onto the sweater (he could always throw it away later if he wanted to), he spent an even longer time washing off the blood stains on his hands. Even after every trace of crimson had been removed, he continued to run his hands through the steady stream of water as it flowed out the faucet.

_I must look like Lady Macbeth._ Clarky thought sarcastically. _Out, out, damn spot!_

The door to the bathroom opened behind him to reveal a dazed John being led by the arm by a disheveled Lestrade, who looked like he threw on his clothes haphazardly and raced over to the hospital as quickly as he could.

"Oh, Clarky! _Thank God!_ Can you help me real quick?" Greg said. Wordlessly, he handed Clarky a clean sweater. _Or "jumper," if you were a Brit._ Clarky thought sardonically.

Clarky looked over at John, who seemed completely out of it, like he wasn't aware of what was going on. He hadn't seen John since he jumped in the ambulance with Lucky.

_That had been almost two hours ago._

John was no longer the strong, take-charge medical doctor from earlier. He stared fixedly ahead, even though the entire front of his shirt was saturated in dried blood. John's hands were shaking so bad that he looked like he was almost suffering from a seizure.

Together, Clarky and Lestrade wordlessly managed to peel off John's ruined jumper and pull the other one over his head. Clarky quickly threw the offending item into the garbage bend. Then, as an afterthought, he threw his own ruined shirt away too.

_Why upset John any more than he already is? I can always buy more clothes later. But what good would it do if I carry around a shirt with Lucky's blood on it for John to see? _

"John, we need you to snap out of it! Come on, John!" Lestrade said, holding on to his friend to keep him from slumping down to the floor. "_JOHN!_"

John suddenly pushed Lestrade away and raced toward the nearest stall. Seconds later, the two Yarders grimaced in sympathy as they listened to John's miserable retching.

After several minutes, when the men thought that John could not possibly have anything left in his stomach, Clarky went over to one of the bathroom sinks and retrieved a paper towel from one of the dispensers nearby. After running it through some cold water, Clarky took it and went over to the stall where John sat crouched over the toilet, taking gasping breaths.

"Here you go." Clarky said, handing him the moistened paper towel. "You okay?"

John nodded slightly. His face was flushed and sweaty. "Sorry. Just got sick."

"Yeah, I figured that." Clarky said. A sudden idea hit him. "Maybe you have _morning sickness!"_

That comment got a chuckle out of Lestrade and a weak smile from John, who leaned back to where he was supported by the wall of the bathroom stall. Clarky reached over and flushed the toilet in case John should need it again, while John tentatively wiped his face and hands with the damp paper towel. After he was done, Clarky took it from him to throw it away.

Lestrade crouched over to where John was, his face full of concern. "Are you alright, John?"

"Yeah." John said softly. "Just nerves."

"I figured that you had nerves of steel, John!" Clarky said. "You didn't bat an eyelash earlier. You should have seen him, Greg! While the rest of us were freaking out and didn't know what to do, John here was Mr. Take-Charge!"

Lestrade smiled. "I _have_ seen him, Clarky. He's a good man to have in a crisis."

"Just not when the crisis is over." John retorted sadly. "But it's not over yet."

"Hey, think positive, John! Lucky's tough! I'm sure he will be fine." Clarky said, trying to sound like he actually believed it.

"A deep laceration and severe bruising and swelling to his throat, a gunshot wound to his left side, several burns and cuts on his hands and arms, multiple bruises and cuts that were exposed to those disease-ridden sewers for God knows how long, suffering from extreme blood loss and hypothermia. Several cracked ribs. Trauma to the back of his skull. Not to mention the fact that he went a few minutes without breathing!" John replied, looking straight ahead but not really seeing anything. "If he _does_ survive, then there is a good chance he may come out _right_!"

Lestrade and Clarky looked at John, horrified. "You don't know that for sure, John! Sherlock always manages to beat the odds. You _know_ that!" Lestrade said.

"I don't know which is worse, Greg! For Sherlock to die, or for Sherlock to live the rest of his life with irreversible brain damage! _God,_ I can't imagine it!" John said, his voice raised with distress.

Lestrade shuddered at the thought.

He couldn't go through Sherlock's death. _Not again._

But the prospect of the brilliant detective losing the very thing that made him _Sherlock_…it was _terrifying_.

Clarky would not be deterred. "Don't talk like that, John! You can't give up on Lucky now! You have to put yourself together! If you give up, who else is going to be there for him? From what everyone's been saying, _you_ are the only one he listens to!"

"It doesn't bode well that we are _here!_" John groaned.

Clarky looked at John, confused by the odd statement. "I'm sure the hospital staff here are well-trained! When I was here earlier, they treated me well! I mean, they _had_ to take Lucky to the nearest one, but we can always transfer him once he gets better…"

"We are at Bart's." John said, his voice curiously flat.

"_Okay…_" Clarky said, looking towards Lestrade in hopes that he would get an explanation as to why the name of the hospital was supposed to be important.

Lestrade sighed. "This is where Sherlock faked his death last year. By jumping off the roof."

Clarky froze. "_Oh!_ I see…"

_Perfect. As if tonight wasn't bad enough, now his friends are forced to suffer a really bad case of deja vu. It was almost as if the powers that be were determined to remind everyone exactly what happened. _

_As if those who experienced it could forget!_

John shook his head. "I can't lose him! _Not again!_ And what about _Sheri?_ I can't…"

Lestrade waved his hand. "Stop it, John. _Just. Stop._ Clarky's right! Sherlock is going to be fine."

"And what if he doesn't make it?" John whispered.

"Not an option! Sherlock _will_ make it!" Lestrade affirmed, putting his hand on John's shoulder. "Listen to us, John!"

John nodded glumly. _They were right, of course. He had to pull himself together._ Leaning back against the stall, John closed his eyes and took several deep breaths as he waited for his heart rate to return to normal.

"Can I get you anything, John? Water? Coffee? Is it too late for you Brits to drink tea?" Clarky asked.

John's grin was shaky as he looked up at Clarky. "I'm fine. Really."

"_Okay_…So I take it that _denial_ is also something you Brits suffer from! I'm serious, John! And I promise I won't let that sneaky government official anywhere near it! So, what can I get you so you don't collapse on us from dehydration?" Clarky persisted, grinning good-naturedly.

"I'll take some water, then." John grumbled, sounding drained.

"Sure! Greg, what about you?"

Lestrade looked at Clarky skeptically. "I'll take coffee, black. But I'm taking mine back in the waiting room, thank you very much! I'm not eating or drinking _anything_ on this floor!"

Clarky smirked. "Well, we can't leave John here by himself! What about it, John? You think you can make it back to the waiting room in one piece to prevent Lestrade here of catching God-knows-what on this floor?"

"I'm fine. Really." John said, waving his arm half-heartedly. "You go on ahead!"

"And let the hospital staff think I got a friend drunk and then left him to puke his guts out? They already think I'm an ax murderer!" Clarky protested.

"Wonderful visual, Clarky!" Lestrade muttered sarcastically.

"You're welcome! But I'm a Marine, and we don't leave a man behind!" Clarky proclaimed.

John smirked slightly at Clarky's reference to the military. "So we are to charge into battle, then?"

"Hey, you wouldn't let me go down there by myself." Clarky explained, referring to the tunnel incident. "Anderson would have left me to be devoured by those bomb-making rats!"

"Bomb-making rats?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"Oh, yeah! You don't know yet! Anderson thought some bomb-making rats took out Mr. Holmes's car." Clarky related. "That's how we found Lucky in the first place. He must have had a home-made bomb with him and planted it under that manhole. Pretty clever, if you ask me!"

Lestrade looked at both men disbelieving. "How did he know he was under the Met?"

Clarky shrugged. "Maybe he memorized a map of London's Underground or something! Maybe one of Anderson's bomb-making rats helped him! The man's a genius, Greg! How do you understand the mind of a genius?"

"You don't." John replied as he stood up. "You can only hope that the genius doesn't tear himself apart."

* * *

"What do you mean, they _cannot_ find her?" Mycroft asked softly, but with a slight sense of urgency. "She was supposed to stay there!"

"I am sorry, Sir." Not-Anthea said quietly. "The security team searched the grounds. They cannot locate her."

John looked around the waiting room, which seemed void of all other visitors except those who came for Sherlock.

Donovan, Anderson, Hopkins, and Mary were sitting side by side in several chairs lined up against the wall, their faces identical in their mutual anxiety. Molly paced around near the door.

Meanwhile, Not-Anthea and Mycroft seemed to be in the middle of an important discussion.

"_Okay_…" Clarky muttered. He turned to Molly. "What's going on?"

Molly pushed a strand of hair from her face. Her face was pale and drawn. "It's Sheri! She disappeared from the safe house!"

"_What?!"_ John gasped. "What happened? Was she taken?"

"My niece convinced Mr. Douglas to assist her when she decided to leave my protection." Mycroft explained in a calm voice, though his face was creased with lines. "He ordered a pizza from a take-out location where one of his friends works, and allowed Sheridan to leave the premises in the back of the delivery van."

"_Chase _helped her leave?" John asked. "Why would he do something as stupid as that!?"

Mycroft sighed. "I deduce that my niece had somehow found out about what happened and decided to come here."

"You mean you tried to keep it from her? That Sherlock was in the hospital? _Why?!_" Mary asked.

"My niece has a phobia about hospitals, Ms. Morstan. She was nearly kidnapped from one, and she watched several men get shot and die in front of her. Her mother also died at a hospital. Telling her that her father managed to injure himself to the point that he required hospitalization would not have helped the situation." Mycroft pointed out.

"And how, _exactly_, were you planning to keep it from her?" John asked incredulously. "In case it escaped your attention, Mycroft, the child is a world-class hacker, and a genius! Bloody hell, she also knows how to use a _gun!_"

"You are _so_ dead, Mr. Holmes!" Clarky remarked seriously.

"As of this moment, I am rather preoccupied with my family's welfare, as opposed to their _feelings._" Mycroft said, his face a stern mask.

"But why did Chase help Sheridan leave?" Molly asked.

"Because my uncle decided that he wasn't going to tell me that Dad was in a hospital, _that's why!_"

Stunned, all the adults (with the exception of Mycroft, who looked resigned, as though he expected this would happen) turned to the entrance door of the waiting room.

Standing there, her ebony hair dripping with water from the storm outside and shivering with suppressed fury, was the miniature figure of Sheridan Joan Morray. Her normally alabaster skin was flushed, and her eyes were like steel as she stood there, her little hands balled into fists at her sides, very much like the way she was at Whitehall, when she berated Mycroft, John, and Lestrade for their self-pity.

Except _this_ time she looked much, much angrier.

From the way she was staring daggers towards Mycroft, it seemed to be a fortunate thing for all concerned that she currently did not have access to a firearm.

* * *

Mary stood up, looking concerned. "Sheri…"

Sheridan ignored her and continued to stare at her uncle. "Why didn't you call to tell me Dad was hurt?!"

Mycroft kept his face impassive. "Sheridan, my dear…"

"_Don't!_ Stop with trying to make me feel better and tell me the truth! You left instructions for no one to tell me what was going on with Dad! _You tried to keep something from me, Uncle Mycroft!_" Sheridan accused, taking a step forward menacingly.

Mycroft stood by stoically, unwilling or unable to come up with a response.

Sheridan paused. When she spoke again, her voice betrayed just how upset she was. "Answer one question. Is Dad badly hurt? Is there a chance that he could _die_, like Mom did?"

Mycroft continued to stare at his niece. He didn't answer her question.

Yet somehow she already knew the answer.

* * *

**Author's note:** Ok, another evil cliffhanger! I'm sorry! I really am! But have you guys seen the lengths of my chapters? I couldn't break them up anymore than what they already were!

At least I didn't leave Sherlock to die in the sewer! That is something, right?

So, how many of you guessed that Sherlock was under Scotland Yard? Come on! Be truthful! I want to know!

So, how did you like the fact that Sherlock blew up a manhole under the New Scotland Yard, as well as totally destroyed Mycroft's Rolls Royce in the process? It will be interesting to see the fall out of that situation later, huh?

You know what? I _really_ like Clarky! I do! He doesn't seem to let anything stop him, and he always tries to cheer people up. It's a shame he wasn't with the Yard during the "Reichenbach Fall" episode, because he probably would have gotten everyone to see what was obvious to us.

But then again, maybe not. After all, no one picked up on the fact that Sherlock was "Lucky," even though Clarky must have left a million clues for them to pick up on!

So, what will happen next? Will Sherlock survive? Will Mycroft learn why you _never_ mess with Sheridan? Am I doing a good job, considering this is my first fan-flick? Let me know!

**Disclaimer:** Now I must be redundant! I don't own "Sherlock." _How dull!_

**OC Chase Douglas**-Peaceful Defender, you got to hide me!

**Peaceful Defender**-Why?

**OC Chase Douglas**-The DMP isn't happy with me right now!

**Peaceful Defender**-Can you _blame_ him? You helped his niece leave in the back of a pizza-delivery truck! Did you ever stop to think what could have happened to her? What if Moriarty's men are still out there? What if she got _injured?_ Or _kidnapped?_

**OC Chase Douglas**-Look, _I'm sorry!_ I didn't mean to! I wasn't thinking! The _Chimera_ learned that her father was in the hospital, and that there were orders from the DMP that no one was to let her know, and she got upset! Have you _seen_ a little girl beg, Peaceful Defender? It's not pretty! I was bawling!

**Peaceful Defender**-Still, you can understand why Mycroft might be a little angry at you later.

**OC Chase Douglas** (crying)-I _know!_ My hero will hate me forever! He will lock me up, or he really will cut off my head, and post it on the door with a sign that says "Do Not Mess With The DMP, or You Will End Up Like Me!" _But how could I say no?!_

**Peaceful Defender** (sighes)-_Fine!_ Stay here for a bit, and I'll go talk to Mycroft, assuming he survives his encounter with Sheridan. Ok?

**OC Chase Douglas** (hugs Peaceful Defender)-THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!

**Peaceful Defender** (sniffs at Chase Douglas)-_Ugh! _ You have been drinking coffee again, haven't you?

**OC Chase Douglas**-I had to! I am _sooo_ depressed!

**Peaceful Defender**-And I suppose you are going to tear apart my house until you find where we keep it?

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Really? _ You are _offering_ me coffee!? You are the greatest person ever, Peaceful Defender! You may be a lawyer, and crazy, and you may lead the cops on a high-speed chase whenever you can...

**Peaceful Defender**-_CHASE!_

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Oh!_ No one was supposed to know about that, huh? Well, maybe one day you will be featured on an episode of "Cops!" Think about the fame! "_Bad boys, bad boys, a what cha gonna do! A what cha gonna do when they come for you!"_

**Peaceful Defender**-Now _I'm_ depressed! But while you are addicted to coffee, I am addicted to reviews! So _please,_ my wonderful readers! Don't let me down!


	32. Chapter 31

**Chapter Thirty One: And Into the Light**

"We call that person who has lost his father, an orphan; and a widower that man who has lost his wife. But that man who has known the immense unhappiness of losing a friend, by what name do we call him? Here every language is silent and holds its peace in impotence." Joseph Roux

* * *

"_You git!_ You… you, lying, sneaky _git!_" Sheridan yelled, stamping one of her feet with each word.

Mycroft sighed heavily. _This was not a good day for him. _ "Sheridan, my dear. Now is not the time…"

"Did you _honestly_ think you could hide this from me!?" Sheridan screeched. "I've been hacking into security systems and listening to secured calls since I was _four!_ Where's Dad? How bad is he hurt? _I want to know! Right now!_"

"Sheridan, I have chosen not to tell you anything because I myself have not been fully informed about your father's condition." Mycroft explained patiently. "If I told you he was in the hospital, without having a detailed report, it would have caused you undue stress and anxiety."

"I don't care about _me_! What about Dad? He's alone! _In a hospital!_ People go to hospitals to _die!_ That's how Mom died! And that's where Dad died the first time!" Sheridan shrill cries echoed in the waiting room. Tears began to stream down the child's pale face as she continued to work herself up into a state bordering on hysteria. "He needs someone with him! He's alone! And he shouldn't be alone! _Why is he alone?!_"

"_Sheri!_ Calm down!" John said. Without pausing for a second, he swept the girl into his arms. Sheridan began sobbing loudly as she held onto John, weeping onto his shoulder. "Hush, Sheri! It's going to be ok! Sherlock's going to be ok! He's going to be fine!"

Sheridan wailed. Her breath came in ragged hitches as she clung onto John as though he was her only anchor. Kneeling on the floor, John felt his heart ache with every gut-wrenching sob that issued out of the little girl.

"Sheridan." Mycroft said. Sheridan looked up to see her uncle had crossed the distance to where he was now looking at Sheridan over John's shoulder. "I do not doubt that your father will recover. Look around this room. Tell me who is here."

Sheridan glanced around the room, breaths coming in gasps as she tried unsuccessfully to calm down. "Greg, Stanley, Clarky, Molly, Sally, Anderson, John, Mary, Melissa, at least, that's her name this week, and you!"

"And do you think that we plan on leaving Sherlock alone? For one minute?" Mycroft prompted.

Sheridan slowly shook her head.

Mycroft continued speaking. "Right now, the doctors are with him, Sheridan. But once they allow us to, we plan on staying with Sherlock until he leaves this hospital."

Sheridan nodded, her eyes still brimming with unshed tears as John continued to hold her.

"And do you know that it is illogical to blame yourself, Sheridan, for your mother's death? Didn't Sherlock already tell you that it was not your fault? And didn't you say that your father was smarter than anyone else, so he must be right?" John said calmly.

"But that was before he got hurt!" Sheridan protested weakly. "He doesn't like hospitals either! He had to leave you last year, and that was at a hospital! _This hospital!_" Sheridan buried her head into John's shoulder again, still sobbing, but without the force that was behind it earlier.

"You are an observant girl, Sheridan. Sherlock has never liked hospitals either, but not for the same reasons as you do. But he made a promise to come back for you, did he not?" Mycroft reasoned gently.

John turned to view the government official incredulously.

Was Mycroft actually being _comforting_?

Sheridan muttered something indistinct into John's shoulder and nodded her head.

"That's a good girl." Mycroft whispered back, smiling warmly. Surprisingly, he made it look genuine. "Now, why don't you go and clean yourself up, so you will feel better."

"I'll take her." Donovan offered, standing up. She walked over to John and gently took the girl from his arms. Sheridan offered no resistance.

"Come on, Sheri. Let's go to the loo and freshen up, alright?" Donovan muttered soothingly.

"I'll come too." Mary volunteered. She passed John and gave his hand a squeeze. "Save my seat. I'll be right back."

John smiled weakly at Mary as she followed the police sergeant and sniffling child out of the waiting room. Mycroft settled back into his chair as though nothing had happened, while John was a little slower in sitting down. The room was silent for a few minutes before Mycroft looked over at John and gave him a knowing look.

"I had forgotten how much alike Sheridan is to Sherlock, or I would have anticipated this situation in advance."

"Was Sherlock _really_ like that? When he was younger?" John asked curiously.

"Oh, quite!" Mycroft said dismissively. "He felt things very deeply, as a child. Like Sheridan, he didn't often indulge in outward displays of emotion, but when he did, we _all_ knew it!"

"So Sherlock wasn't always like this?" Lestrade asked.

"Like _what_, Inspector?" Mycroft asked, eyes narrowing.

Lestrade shook his head. "Never mind! That was an insensitive question. Forget I asked!"

"What you were going to ask is if my brother was always so _cold_, is that it, Inspector?" Mycroft said significantly. "Perhaps it was because he learned that it was the only way to survive in this world, which is something that Sheridan has failed to grasp at this point in her life. Sentiment is a liability, Inspector! It weakens you, allows you to be held hostage by your enemies. So one must do without sentiment, in order to make the most logical decisions."

"Is that your belief, Mycroft?" John asked softly.

"It is, concerning most things." Mycroft said, gripping his umbrella tightly.

"And how about Sherlock?" John asked.

Mycroft sighed in defeat. "No. When it comes to my brother, that rule does not apply."

Clarky smirked. "And here I was worried about Lucky! No offense, Mr. Holmes, but I was kinda hoping…"

"No, Dr. Clarkson. If my brother recovers, I have no desire to send my brother anywhere. Siberia or otherwise! The comment was made merely as an attempt at humor, nothing more!" Mycroft grumbled.

"Good!" Clarky said. "Because I was planning on organizing a coop if you were!"

"No doubt you would make it interesting, Dr. Clarkson. You are indeed a credit to your upbringing. Although I do find it _mildly_ disturbing that someone in your profession feels the need to have fourteen handguns and three rifles at his disposal." Mycroft observed.

Hopkins looked over at Clarky in shock. "_Seventeen guns?!"_

Clarky shrugged. "For a government official, your spies are pretty sloppy. It is obvious that they haven't found them all yet!"

Anderson squeaked. "_Bloody hell, Clarky!_ Stan is right about you!"

Clarky shrugged again. "I don't know why everyone is getting so worked up over it! If there is a criminal shooting at us or something, you would all thank your lucky stars that I was armed with enough fire power to take him down!"

"Well, I'm planning on keeping you and Sherlock away from each other at crime scenes!" Lestrade muttered.

Clarky frowned. "_Why?_ You think one little redneck is going to hurt him? _News flash_, Greg! Lucky spent _four months_ surrounded by gun-carrying rednecks! And most of them are not as even-tempered as I am! If he can survive that, he can survive _anything!_"

Lestrade smirked. "I didn't mean _that_, Clarky! I meant that between you and John with your shooting skills, along with Sherlock's need to blow things up, I don't think the Yard stands a chance!"

"Do you think he did it on purpose?" Anderson asked. "Do you think he was targeting the Yard, or Mr. Holmes?"

Anderson's bizarre statement earned him many disbelieving stares. "Anderson, is that seriously what you _think_? That Sherlock decided he is going to bomb _Scotland Yard?_ Or his _brother?"_ Lestrade asked.

"I'm just saying that it seems like a strange coincidence, that's all!" Anderson argued.

"_Okay…_" Clarky muttered. He looked at Lestrade. "Remind me _never_ to loan Anderson a gun again! Between his conspiracy theories and his desire to have the male population fixed, I'm not sure we can trust him!"

"_What?_" Molly asked.

Clarky grinned. "I'll tell you later!"

Hopkins chuckled softly, and the exchange managed to elicit tired smiles from John and Lestrade. Anderson frowned, but took the jokes without complaint, which was a clear sign of how truly exhausted he was.

Mycroft, of course, was unreadable, as always.

The adults lapsed into an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, until Hopkins coughed loudly and looked over at Molly. "Hey, Molly, is that one of Clarky's shirts you got?"

Anderson giggled as Molly looked up, surprised. "Yes. Why?"

"Let me see it!" Hopkins said, reaching over and snatching the orange sweatshirt out of Molly's hands. He held it up to see it better. "_Brilliant!_ This is from your school, Clarky? That Knoxville place you told us about?"

"You. Are. Going. To. _Die!_" Clarky muttered as he realized what Hopkins was thinking. "Just wait! And Molly here will help me dispose your body where _no one_ will find it! Maybe I'll even ship your corpse over to the Body Farm!"

Hopkins laughed, not looking concerned in the slightest. "Well, since we are waiting for that day to come, we might as well solve _this_ mystery once and for all! Can someone get a shock blanket so we can see if it does match Clarky's school colors?"

Clarky looked at Hopkins in shock and outrage. "_Stan!_ Of all the things to bring up…"

"We got to do something to pass the time, mate! Maybe we can post it on John's blog and let the people decide!" Hopkins said happily. "Anderson, see if the hospital staff will lend you a shock blanket. If they ask why, just say that Clarky here is feeling homesick!"

"Greg, you don't mind if I _kill_ Stan, do you?" Clarky drawled, his American accent becoming very pronounced.

"Just don't get caught." Lestrade muttered weakly.

* * *

_November 5th, eighteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

The chief surgeon, Dr. Sinclair, walked into the crowded waiting room. He glanced around, unsure as to who he needed to speak to.

There was an imposing looking man in an expensive black suite and coat that looked like it came directly from Saville Row. He was calmly holding an umbrella. Considering the storm that was raging outside, Dr. Sinclair thought the man seemed inadequately prepared if he wanted to avoid getting wet. Beside him was a younger woman with dark hair, who was wearing an expensive tailored outfit and was typing away on a Black Berry.

In another chair sat a man in a crumpled grey jumper, looking particularly disheveled and exhausted. Beside him sat a nice-looking woman with blonde hair and a heart-shaped face, holding the man's hand and whispering something to him.

Beside her, curled up in a chair, was a young girl with dark, curly hair, covered with a spare blanket, fast asleep despite the people around her. Dr. Sinclair was surprised at the girl's presence, as it was almost two o'clock in the morning. _Someone should have taken the girl home by now._

There was a group of people sitting in chairs lining the other wall of the waiting room, and they seemed to be preoccupied with something on the floor. Most of them wore badges and looked like they were from the London Metropolitan Police Force.

Someone had laid out one of the hospital's shock blankets and spread it out on the floor. On top of the blanket, someone had laid out an orange shirt with a strange white "T" on it. The group stared intently at the two objects, which was why they failed to notice the surgeon's presence.

"I'm _telling_ you, they are not the same!" Said one of the men. "They aren't even close!"

"I don't know, Clarky!" Said another man, who appeared younger and had dark hair. The badge he wore identified him as a Detective Inspector. "I would say they look the same!"

"Get your eyes checked, Stan!" The man identified as "Clarky" muttered irritably. "There is no way those shades look alike!"

Sinclair frowned. _Maybe it is part of an ongoing investigation?_

The surgeon cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"

Everyone, with the exception of the little girl, looked up. "I need to speak to the family of Mr. Holmes." Dr. Sinclair said, looking from person to person.

"I am Mr. Holmes's brother." Said the man with the umbrella, who calmly rose from his chair and crossed the room. "How is he doing, Doctor?"

Dr. Sinclair caught everyone looking at him but kept his eyes on the man with the umbrella. "You will be pleased to learn that your brother got through surgery without any complications and is now in our recovery ward. Thankfully, the bullet did not damage anything vital, and the preliminary scans we have done does not register any brain damage."

Dr. Sinclair heard the collective sigh of relief and felt pleased to be the cause of it. He always hated it when he had to deliver bad news to a patient's family.

Tonight, at least, he would be spared that unpleasant experience.

"Now, he's not out of danger yet. He's already had one transfusion, and we are currently doing another one. Considering where he was found, infection seems to be the main concern right now. So we need to monitor him closely. But he's still alive. That's all anyone can ask for at this point." Dr. Sinclair finished.

The rest of the people in the waiting room looked solemn at this assessment, but still looked pleased by the news.

"May I inquire as to whether any of you are a Doctor John Watson?" The surgeon asked curiously.

"I'm Doctor Watson." Said the man in the wrinkled jumper.

Dr. Sinclair looked at him appraisingly before continuing. "Doctor Watson, I understand you were present when Mr. Holmes was found?"

"Yes." The man confirmed.

"Then I wanted you to know, Doctor, that your efforts at the scene probably saved his life. He was losing a lot of blood, but your quick thinking and medical knowledge probably kept him alive until he could have his injuries properly attended to here." The surgeon said calmly.

The man known as Doctor Watson sighed visibly. "Thank you, Doctor. When can we see him?"

"Not for another hour at least, I'm afraid. We have to limit the people who come into contact with him, in order to minimize the risk of infection. So only adult visitors will be allowed to see him, and even then, it's family only." The surgeon replied.

"But John _is_ family! Right, Uncle John?" Said a voice. The surgeon looked over and spied the girl from earlier, who was now awake and rubbing her eyes. It was she who spoke out.

"The child is correct, Doctor. Dr. Watson is family." Interjected the man with the umbrella. His tone implied that he would not entertain arguments to the contrary.

"Very well." Dr. Sinclair allowed, even though he knew that he was helping someone break hospital rules.

_Who did these people think they were fooling? _ _Doctor Watson held absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to his patient. _

But as long as the rest of them were not going to try to plead family ties, he was ok to allow the rules to be bent.

_Just this once._

"Thank you, Doctor." The man with the umbrella replied calmly. "When will we be notified as to when we can see him?"

"We want to keep him in recovery for the next hour, then we will move him to a private room in intensive care." Dr. Sinclair explained.

"Very good. Melissa, dear, would you see to the arrangements, please?" The man with the umbrella said, addressing the woman with the Black Berry.

"Right away, Sir." The woman replied.

"Arrangements for what?" Dr. Sinclair asked.

"For my brother, of course." Said the man dismissively. "Melissa, please make sure to tell the security team to check all vantage points so that we can locate Sherlock to a room with the least amount of security risk."

"_Excuse me_?" Dr. Sinclair gasped.

_This certainly has never happened to him in the twenty plus years he has worked in surgery. Just who is this "Sherlock Holmes," anyway?_

"Ask no questions and they will tell you no lies." The man identified as "Clarky" suggested.

Dr. Sinclair bristled slightly. He was one of the chief surgeons here. And he had _questions._

But as he glanced at the imposing man with the icy blue eyes, he rather doubted he would get any satisfying answers.

* * *

As promised, John and Mycroft were led back to the room where Sherlock was resting in almost an hour and a half later. After the chief surgeon had left, the waiting room erupted into applause and cheers as everyone finally reacted to the news.

The overall good will was such that Clarky chose to ignore the fact that Hopkins, in his excitement, accidentally jumped up and down on Clarky's beloved Tennessee shirt, which was lying on top of the shock blanket so that the group could engage in the now infamous "Shock Blanket Color Debate."

After the celebrations died down, everyone left, assuring John and Mycroft that they would drop by later when they were allowed to. Mary kissed John goodbye and took Sheridan with her, as Sheridan wanted to be in London while her father was in the hospital.

Sheridan, for her part, was hesitant to leave and only did so after various assurances that Sherlock would not be left alone. The rest of the group left as well, promising to call for updates as to Sherlock's recovery and offering any help that may be required later.

"I wonder if we may be able to move Sherlock to another hospital later." Mycroft said quietly as he walked down the hallway toward the private room where Sherlock was located.

John smirked. "I doubt Sherlock would stay long enough to let you, Mycroft."

Mycroft grinned despite himself. "What happened to the 'lock him up for a month until he explains himself' plan? As I recall, the Detective Inspector was willing to allow you to use one of Scotland Yard's cells."

"The plan's on hold for now." John replied. "But that doesn't mean I can't use it later."

"Interesting." Mycroft said quietly. "I feel that my influence may be rubbing off on you, John."

John snorted. It was hard to tell if he was agreeing with Mycroft or not. "Where is his room?"

"Over there." Mycroft pointed with his umbrella. "According to my security team, it is the best private room with the least number of vantage points for snipers and the furthest from any entrances and exits that are used frequently by hospital staff. And those points are currently being watched."

"_Uh-huh._" John said, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. "You know, _most_ people just worry if their rooms have telly, or enough chairs for visitors."

"We are not most families, John, as I'm sure you are aware." Mycroft said calmly. "Now, let's see how bad Sherly has managed to drive himself into the ground _this_ time. Between you and myself, John, I was amazed he survived his twenties."

John sighed. "I know what you mean."

* * *

Had John not been mentally prepared for what to expect, he would have yelled at Mycroft and demanded that they take him to see his friend, as the man lying motionless in the bed could _not_ be Sherlock.

Because it was not the Sherlock of his memories, the brilliant man who ran around London's streets and solved gruesome murders with trace amount of evidence.

_The arrogant git who could tell everything about a person based on what he was wearing but couldn't buy milk to save his life. _

_The roommate who kept body parts in the fridge and fingers in the jam jar and who consulted with a skull when he was bored. _

_The bastard who took on a mad genius and faked his death, leaving his best friend images of his bleeding corpse to haunt his nightmares. _

_The insane idiot who traveled the world to take out Moriarty's web until only the spider himself remained._

_This_ Sherlock bore no resemblance to any of John's memories. This Sherlock was paler than John could have thought possible. He had a trachea tube attached to the side of his mouth to assist his breathing. He was covered with tubes connected to various machines. A thin tube snaked out of one arm to lead to an IV drip, while another tube, attached to the other arm, was connected to a liter of blood, to replace the blood Sherlock had lost earlier.

The man was covered with blankets all the way to his shoulders. His neck, still visible, was heavily bandaged. A hospital cap, which served to help Sherlock retain whatever meager body heat he had, rested on top of his head, hiding most of his curls from view.

"The doctors have informed me that there are no fresh injection marks in his arms. My people took the liberty of taking a sample of his hair and were please to inform me that even though Sherlock had taken many risks to his health as of late, such as prolonged periods of malnutrition, his habit of turning to drugs has not recurred." Mycroft noted as he settled into one of the chairs.

John looked at the man in shock. _Of all the things to worry about!_ "Would it have been too much to simply _ask_ Sherlock when he woke up?"

"I consider it more like conducting an experiment and getting the necessary data I needed to prove my hypothesis."

"Hypothesis my arse!" John retorted. "Can you not stop prying into your brother's private life for _one second_?"

"No." Mycroft replied. "Besides, you see what happens when he is left to his own devices."

Grumbling, John took the medical chart off the foot of Sherlock's bed and read it quietly for a few minutes.

"His temperature has gone up a bit. That's good, but it's still too low. Thirty-two degrees Celsius. Definitely hypothermic. A bit not good, that! They have him on a high dose of morphine for pain, and Ordansetron for nausea. They also gave him some strong antibiotics to fight infection. Mostly from the stab wound on his throat."

"The cut he received while protecting your fiancé." Mycroft replied.

John nodded as he continued reading the chart, even though he felt his own throat tighten uncomfortably. "The swelling is going to be a problem. Sherlock won't be able to talk for a few days at least. I bet the Yard will be pleased with that information! They won't have to listen to Sherlock call them idiots for a while! There doesn't seem to be any permanent damage to the trachea, though. So, unless something happens, he should be able to talk again."

Mycroft nodded absently, lost in his own thoughts.

"It may take some time, but Sherlock should be able to leave here in a few weeks." John confirmed as he replaced the chart. "I wonder how long it will take him to recover mentally."

Mycroft looked over at John. "Would you be kind enough to explain what you mean, John?"

John looked at Mycroft, eyes narrowed. "Sherlock virtually cut himself off from everything he knew in order to go after Moriarty's empire. His friends, his family, his home, his possessions, even his very name! For the first few months, he lived with the notion that the world believed him to be a fraud and a criminal. After that, he lived in constant fear that Moriarty would get bored again and come after us! I imagine that is _bound_ to leave an impression on him."

John paused, allowing the words to sink in before continuing. "Don't forget the fact that he finds out that his former friend, who also happens to be the _sister_ of a psychopath, had his kid and didn't tell him until she was dying. And then to raise her while chasing criminals around the globe…"

Mycroft nodded. "It almost sounds like a plot one of those mentally imbalanced writers from Mr. Douglas's Fan Fiction website would come up with, does it not?"

John smirked. "If it was anyone else but Sherlock, I would say it would be _unbelievable."_ John turned and found one of the chairs in the room. He moved it closer towards Sherlock's bedside and took a seat. His eyes did not leave his friend.

Mycroft coughed. "Well, I shall return in a few minutes. I need to check with the head of the security team to discuss how best to ensure Sherlock's safety in the foreseeable future. Thankfully, the press has not gotten wind of it yet, and I for one would like to keep it that way. Would you be kind enough to watch over my brother until I return, Doctor?"

John studied Mycroft with some surprise. They had waited for hours to be allowed near Sherlock, so what could possibly be so important that Mycroft needed to step out for a few minutes?

Suddenly, the answer came to him. _He's allowing me some time to be alone with Sherlock_, John realized.

"I'm not going anywhere, Mycroft. Take whatever time you need."

"Thank you, John. I shall not be long." Mycroft smiled. It was one of his rare, heartfelt smiles that disappeared in an instant if you were not quick enough to catch it. Then Mycroft ambled his way out of the room, leaving John to look over the battered and broken form of Sherlock Holmes.

For a few minutes, nothing happened. The only sounds came from Sherlock's quiet breathing, the rain pouring outside, and the faint but steady beeping of the heart monitor. John sat silently as he gazed at his friend's features.

In truth, the heart monitor was like music to John's ears. With every beep, it proved that Sherlock was still here.

_Still alive._

He still could not forget his anxiety back in the Yard's garage, when Sherlock's heart stopped, and he felt Sherlock slip away.

No whimpered moan. No gasping breath.

_Nothing_ was worse than that silence.

In those first few seconds, when he realized that Sherlock's heart stopped beating, John literally forgot to breathe himself.

Frantically, John had administer CPR with the help of the ambulance workers, who arrived at the perfect moment. He didn't remember if he said anything as he attached the portable defibrillator to his friend's chest and administered shock after shock in a desperate attempt to restart Sherlock's heart…

Quietly, he reached across and grabbed onto Sherlock's hand. It was icy, and swathed in bandages to treat the cuts he received. _Probably from the Slasher_, John theorized.

When Sherlock risked his life to save Mary.

_Did Sherlock know just how much Mary meant to John? Was that why he risked his life to save her? Or was it just a coincidence?_

"Hi, Sherlock." John whispered. "It's me. _John._ Can you hear me?"

Sherlock remained motionless. John wondered if Sherlock could hear him at all. It was well-known that family members were encouraged to talk to people who were unconscious. John himself had remembered many times where he was lying unawares in a hospital, and he couldn't recall a single conversation that he remembered hearing.

But just because he didn't remember them didn't mean that he didn't hear them.

"I hope you can hear me. First, I want to thank you. For not being dead. Believe it or not, I wished many times that you somehow found a way to come back. I even begged for you not to be dead once, at your grave. Did you know that? Probably, since you seem to know everything!"

John swallowed hard against the dryness in his throat before continuing. "You know how people are told to 'move on?' I guess it is so easy, taking things for granted until they are gone. But everyone told me that I needed to move on, to accept your death. And I _couldn't,_ you know? You left, and it was like I died with you."

Pausing, John reached up to wipe the tears that were gathering under his eyelashes.

"I'm…so damn _angry,_ Sherlock! I am angry at Mycroft, for telling Moriarty about you! I'm angry at the Yard for arresting you and turning you into a fugitive! I'm _really_ pissed off at Moriarty! I'm glad that bastard's gone! For good, this time!"

John gritted his teeth in a vain attempt to keep the next words from coming out of his mouth, but it was a futile effort. "And I'm angry with _you_, Sherlock! Why didn't you tell me the truth? Why did you feel you had to tell me you were a fake? So I would _hate_ you? So I wouldn't _miss_ you? Well, you did a _terrible_ job there, Sherlock! And why didn't you trust me? I would have gone with you! We could have taken Moriarty's organization down! _Together!_"

John gripped Sherlock's hand tighter, hoping to feel some pressure that will show that Sherlock was aware that he was not alone, but there was nothing.

"I am also mad at myself." John whispered. "I told you that you weren't human. That day, back at Bart's. That was one of the last things I said to you. But I was just angry. I always knew you were human, Sherlock. God, why did I spend so much time trying to get your heart to start working again unless I was sure you had one? And then I failed to protect you. You had to jump off a bloody roof to save _my_ life!"

"_Why_, Sherlock? Why did you do it? Why risk your life to save mine? I'm nothing special! What did you see in someone as stupid as me that you believed was worth saving?"

Tears began to flow freely down John's face now, and he made no effort to wipe them away.

Unbidden, Sherlock's voice echoed in his head.

_"I don't have friends…I have one."_

"_Thank _you, Sherlock…for everything that you did! For saving my life! For saving Mary, too. Sheridan said that you knew I cared for her, and _of course_ you risk your life to save her, like an _idiot!_ But still, I could never have asked for a better friend! You're…you're the best friend I've ever had, and I…I _can't_…I can't bear it if you die on me again! The doctors think you are going to be ok eventually, so you _better_ be! _Because I can't lose you!_ And there are a fair number of people who have that belief as well!"

John looked furtively into Sherlock's face. He hoped to see fluttering eyes, or something that would show that Sherlock was waking up. That he understood.

But there was nothing.

"I wish you didn't feel you had to do this all alone, Sherlock. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me."

John paused. _What else could he say to draw his friend back?_

"I am staying right here until you wake up, Sherlock! I'm not leaving until you open your eyes! But you better keep your heart beating, do you hear me? And no arguing that you don't have a heart! _I felt it! It's there!_ It's probably well hidden from the rest of the world, but I know it's there! For a few minutes you didn't...for a while it stopped beating! And those minutes were among the worst moments of my life!"

John sniffed as he took both his hands to cover Sherlock's cold one, trying to cast a lifeline of some sort to his friend, who was almost certainly alone and frightened and lost in a darkness far greater than the one he must have experienced in the tunnels under London.

"I need you to do me one more favor, Sherlock. I know I don't have the right to ask you, because everyone seems to want to take from you until…until they can't be bothered by you anymore. And I don't want to be a bother, Sherlock. Just, please. _Don't give up_. I'm so used to life sending luck my way, only to snatch it back again. Just…come back. _Please_, Sherlock. One last miracle, I swear!"

"Come back."

* * *

Someone was speaking.

Sherlock could hear it. He was _certain_ he could hear it.

_But where was it coming from?_

He knew he was caught in a vortex of blackness that threatened to swallow him up, to pull him back down into the nameless void. But he fought, just briefly. Even if it hurt. Later he would slip willingly into the darkness. But he _had_ to know who was talking. It was important, for some reason. He just didn't know what.

_Maybe it was John. He did come back here, didn't he? To find John?_

The voice had stopped. He heard hitched gasps in the background.

_Someone was crying. _

But _why?_ What was wrong? Ugh! This was John's department, not his! And where was John, anyway? John would want to help whoever-it-was who was crying?

So why was it so important for _him_ to know? Why did _he_ feel distressed that someone was sad? He wasn't supposed to care. He had sworn off feelings years ago.

Why have emotions when all you did was leave your heart vulnerable to attack, only to be hurt over and over again until it becomes so mistreated that it eventually forgets how to keep beating?

He didn't want to be broken, so he erected barriers around himself.

It was the only way.

Emotions were a liability.

_So why did he feel sad that someone was upset?_

The person, whoever it was, had stopped crying.

_Who are you? Why are you crying?_

Sherlock wanted answers to these questions, but he could already feel himself being pulled under the murky waves of unconsciousness again. To retreat for a while in a place where he wasn't labeled a freak, psychopath, or criminal. Where the burning pain that rocked his body faded into nothingness. Where he didn't have to worry about whatever reason the person was crying about.

Sherlock made one last attempt to break across the barrier, but it was a feeble attempt, almost laughable.

His strength was gone.

_Very well._

He would wait this out, and hopefully get another chance. After he recovered his strength.

Perhaps, if he finds a way out of this darkness, he would find the person and deduce the reason behind his distress.

Maybe he would even help them. Provided the reason wasn't _boring_, of course.

_That's what John would want him to do._

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, that chapter took a lot out of me! I really need to stop doing this to myself!

And for those who were rooting for Sheridan to (_insert type of injury here_) Mycroft, I am sorry to disappoint you. I know Mycroft probably deserves it, but I think he was honestly thinking he had Sheridan's best interests at heart when he tried to keep the information about Sherlock from her. Sometimes he forgets that he is dealing with a prodigy.

And I think that sometimes_ I_ forget what Sheridan is. She may be a genius and infamous hacker with both of her parents abilities. And yes, she has seen enough death in her short life so that it shouldn't come as a surprise to her. But the fact remains that she is still just a child. A little girl who has already lost her mother, and is worried about losing her father.

And as much as we were all secretly rooting for Sheridan to come in and shoot Mycroft, or at least give him a few bruises, I think her emotional breakdown is far more realistic.

By the way, Donovan is going out of her way to be especially nice to Sheridan. I think she is going a long way to redeeming herself, don't you?

And Anderson? _Uh, yeah! _ He comes up with the craziest ideas sometimes, doesn't he?

So, will Sherlock pull through? Or will the mob come and get me?

Tune in for the next chapter!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own "Sherlock!" Yet somehow, the characters seem to want to push all their petty disputes on me!

**Mycroft Holmes**-Ah, Peaceful Defender! So good to see you again.

**Peaceful Defender**-And you, Mr. Holmes. You may have a seat, if you want. However, I didn't plan for your strike team to accompany you, so they will have to wait outside!

**Mycroft Holmes** (looks back at the five minions, decked out in body armor, behind him)-I'll take it from here, gentlemen. Please wait outside.

**Nameless Minion One** (Looks to the others)-You heard Mr. Holmes! Deploy to defensive positions throughout the surrounding area!

**Nameless Minion Two** (looks at Peaceful Defender hopefully)-Are there any dangerous people living nearby?

**Peaceful Defender** (shrugs)-I doubt it! Sorry!

**Nameless Minion Three** (huffs in agitation as he picks up his AK-47 rifle)-_Ahhhhh! _ I'll never get a chance to try this baby out!

**Peaceful Defender** (watches as Nameless Minions leave)-Uh, Mycroft? Don't you think you are taking this whole "national security" thing too far?

**Mycroft Holmes**-After learning that one of your countrymen, Dr. Clarkson, has in his possession at least seventeen firearms, I find that question somewhat amusing.

**Peaceful Defender**-Good point.

**Mycroft Holmes**-Now, where is Mr. Douglas?

**Peaceful Defender**-_Chase?_ Oh, he's hiding under my bed upstairs, singing hymns!

**Mycroft Holmes**-So I take it that he has consumed an appalling amount of caffeine during his stay with you.

**Peaceful Defender**-Let me guess! You deduced that from the dark circles under my eyes, or the fact that I am talking to you, and you are fictional.

**Mycroft Holmes**-Both, actually. So, would you be kind enough to fetch Mr. Douglas for me?

**Peaceful Defender**-Before I do, I need you to sign this. (pushes paper in front of Mycroft).

**Mycroft Holmes**-And what is that?

Peaceful Defender-A contract. A binding agreement that states that you will not kill, maim, injure, burn, hang, starve, imprison, behead, torture (physically, mentally, or psychologically), drown, electrocute, or in any way damage one Mr. Chase Douglas. That includes, but is not limited to, cutting his access from computers, putting him in solitary confinement, using him in any experiments, scientific or otherwise, or fire him and/or demote him from his employment with you.

**Mycroft Holmes** (smirks)-_Why_ does no one trust me? Have I, ever once, been excessively cruel or demeaning to Mr. Douglas?

**Peaceful Defender**-No. In fact, I will admit you let him get by with a lot more things than I would have let him get away with! But _you_ do work for the government, so by definition, you can't be trusted.

**Mycroft Holmes**-True, but _you_ are an attorney, so by definition, you can't be trusted!

**Peaceful Defender**-True! So, will you agree to those terms?

**Mycroft Holmes**-Do I reserve the right to get Mr. Douglas help for his caffeine addiction?

**Peaceful Defender**-Of course!

**OC Chase Douglas** (comes running in)-_Hey!_ I'm not addicted to caffeine!

**Peaceful Defender**-Yes you are! And you are going to get help for it!

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Damn!_

**Mycroft Holmes** (signing the document)-Very well, I agree with your terms. Come along, Mr. Douglas!

**OC Chase Douglas** (spins around and glares at Peaceful Defender)-This is not _fair! _ I am not a caffeine addict!

**Peaceful Defender**-And I sense group therapy is needed for you! But that will have to wait until the next chapter. So I must wait for a review!


	33. Chapter 32

**Warning: Cursing, medical jargon, and an explanation of a murder. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Two: Waiting**

All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on. Havelock Ellis

* * *

_November 19__th__. Eighteen months since the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

It had been fourteen days.

Fourteen days of waiting for Sherlock to wake up.

Fourteen days of crap telly and bland hospital food. Fourteen days of watching Sherlock laid out on the hospital bed, motionless as a stone. Fourteen days of more tests and scans. Fourteen days of watching Sherlock's doctors scratch their head in frustration as they were at a loss as to explain why Sherlock was still unresponsive.

Mere hours after he was moved to a private room, Sherlock's temperature spiked as the wound on his throat became infected. The tissues around his neck looked bloated and hot, especially since the rest of his body was still ice-cold to the touch.

Strong antibiotics were intravenously circulated into Sherlock's bloodstream in order to help his already-compromised immune system fight off the infection. However, soon after Sherlock's neck became inflamed, the gunshot wound on his left side and one of the cuts on his right hand became infected as well.

By that time, Sherlock's temperature spiked to forty degrees Celsius, which made the hot water bottles unnecessary.

It took four days of round-the-clock treatment, constant cleaning and rebandaging Sherlock's wounds, and several rounds of antibiotics before Sherlock's fever finally began to abate. During that time, the unconscious man, no doubt in the grips of some fever-induced hallucination, tried to pull out his breathing tube, which made it necessary to restrain him through the use of Velcro straps on his ankles and wrists.

Because Sherlock was such in a weakened state, only Mycroft and John were allowed to visit him. The doctors insisted that the risk of new infection needed to be kept to a minimum, as such they were the only two allowed in the private room with Sherlock.

This restriction was particularly hard on Sheridan, who wanted to see with her own eyes that her father was still alive and would eventually recover. She became listless and withdrawn, and seemed to lose her appetite entirely.

The Yarders, who were unable to help Sherlock, decided to devote their attention to his daughter. Every day, at least one of them would take time out of their schedules and busy lives to visit Sheridan at 221 B Baker Street.

Even _Anderson_ attempted to interact with the depressed girl, the results of which were still laughed about around the Yard.

Although Sheridan was always polite to her visitors, it was rare that she would smile. And the Yarders stood by, helpless, as they watched the once-vibrant child slowly deteriorate in front of them.

Mary visited John at the hospital often, even though she was not allowed to enter Sherlock's room. She brought carry-out and home-cooked meals to John daily, which saved him from starving to death, as the hospital cuisine was somewhat less-than-edible for human consumption. She also brought John's portable lap top so that he could surf the web and answer the messages on his blog. She shared news about Sheridan, expressing her worry that the little girl missed her father to the point that it was beginning to affect her health.

John could well understand Sheridan's despair. It was something he was struggling with as well.

* * *

John looked up from his lap top. "Here's a message from Henry! You remember Henry, of course. The Baskerville Case?" John looked over hopefully at Sherlock, as though waiting for a response.

There was little change in Sherlock's condition, even after fourteen agonizing days and nights waiting for him to wake up. His face was still chalk white, void of all color except the fading greenish-yellow marks left from healing bruises and the slight blueish hues under his eyes.

And he _still_ wouldn't wake up.

But that didn't stop John from talking anyway.

"Well, Henry sends his regards and wishes you a speedy recovery." John said patiently, watching for some sign that let him know that Sherlock was listening. "He also wants to let you know that the facility has closed down, a few months ago. No one knows where they went, of course. But now the locals are saying that they have seen several glowing rabbits running around at night. You know, that is something we should probably look into."

John sighed, trying to think of something that would rouse Sherlock. "You know, Sherlock, you probably need to wake up soon, if only to save the world from your daughter's attempts at matchmaking. I wasn't going to say anything, but Anderson dropped by the flat yesterday to visit Sheridan."

John suddenly giggled. "According to Mary, Sheri had to endure Anderson's attempts of humor for an hour. The idiot even brought his dinosaurs with him, if you can believe that! Then, Sheri told him all his pent-up emotions was getting the best of him and he should just ask Donovan out, because, and I quote this, _'Sally's a very pretty woman and very nice!_' So unless you want to be sent an invitation to the wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, you better wake up soon and stop her!"

John looked hopefully at his friend's face, hoping for some sort of response. But there was still nothing.

"Dr. Watson."

John looked towards the door as Dr. Sinclair entered the private room. "Good morning, Dr. Sinclair."

"I take it there is no change in Mr. Holmes's condition." Dr. Sinclair stated flatly as he made his way over to Sherlock's bedside. Unobtusely, he produced a small light and gently pried opened one of Sherlock's eyes.

"None." John sighed. "No responsiveness whatsoever."

"Well, considering he lost almost five pints of blood, plus having to deal with intensive injuries, hypothermia, high fever, and infection, that is hardly surprising. I imagine his body is still trying to heal itself." Dr. Sinclair said calmly. "I know most of my colleagues are concerned by the lack of response so far, but I for one am confident that this is not cause for alarm."

John nodded. For the last week, Sherlock's condition and what it meant was a source of constant debate from the various specialists that Mycroft had employed. Some, like Dr. Sinclair, maintained that it was normal, while other doctors suggested that Sherlock's lack of response was indicative of a deeper problem.

John fervently hoped for the former.

"However, I am ordering another set of x-rays, to check to see how well his ribs are healing." Dr. Sinclair said as he took a moment to review Sherlock's chart. "Now that his temperature has stabilized, I think it is safe to unhook the monitors for a bit while we do the scans. As his primary doctor, do you have anything you wish me to check?"

John smiled. Out of all the doctors, Dr. Sinclair was the only one who bothered to ask John what he thought. The other doctors usually did their best to ignore him or treat him as though he was merely a patient's relative who didn't know the first thing about medicine. "Well, we probably need to run a hemoglobin screen to see how his white blood cell count is."

Dr. Sinclair nodded. "I'll make sure our people do that. While we are running the tests, you are free to leave this room, you know. It will take us only one hour, but it will give you time to get out, walk around…"

"Thank you, Doctor Sinclair. That will be fine." John muttered. Although people tried to push him, he refused to leave Bart's hospital, fearing that if he left Sherlock's side for a moment, something bad would happen.

It was an irrational fear, of course. Probably something he developed by being around Sheri. But it was also one he was unable to shake.

"Very well." Dr. Sinclair stated flatly. "I understand that he is _family_, after all."

After that night, when Sherlock came out of surgery, Dr. Sinclair decided to Google Sherlock's name to see if he could find out any information on his mysterious patient. It was through his search that he confirmed who John Watson was, and it became a private joke between him and John about how he was "related" to Sherlock.

Currently, Dr. Sinclair was telling the hospital administration that John was Sherlock's long-lost cousin, twice removed, from his mother's side. John affirmed that whenever the staff quizzed him about it, not wanting to be thrown out.

_And if he was, he could always talk to Mycroft…_

"When are you going to take him?" John asked.

"In about forty-five minutes. I want the x-ray lab to be cleared, as to secure Mr. Holmes's privacy. After that, we will go over the results. I have already been in contact with Mr. Holmes's brother, who is coming by to view the x-rays with us and see what the next course of treatment will be. Of course, _Dr. Morrison_ will be there." Dr. Sinclair muttered derisively.

John nodded grimly. Dr. Morrison, who had a Ph.D. in psychiatric medicine, insisted that Sherlock's lack of response was due to catatonia, probably due in part to some sort of mental and psychological trauma.

Dr. Morrison was a psychiatrist who often dealt with people who were mistakenly thought to be dead (usually soldiers who were captured by the enemy during war-time). According to him, Sherlock, assuming he did wake up, would likely go through a stage of deep depression and anxiety, as well as suffer from feelings of dissociation and withdraw, which would impede his (hopefully) eventual recovery.

Dr. Morrison suggested yesterday evening that Sherlock's needs would be better met at a "private hospital." John, of course, vehemently opposed the idea, and was planning on telling Mycroft that when he arrived later today.

Dr. Sinclair opposed this idea as well, making him a valuable ally, as far as John was concerned.

"Well, I'll leave once they take Sherlock back." John replied. "I probably need to freshen up anyway."

"I'll send you a text once we are ready." Dr. Sinclair promised.

After the young, dark-haired young man (whom John knew by the name of "Chris," which only went to show that he definitely had spent way too much time in the hospital) wheeled Sherlock away to the lab, John used the shower in the adjoining bathroom (knowing a government official had its perks sometimes).

After the shower, John put on fresh clothes. Tan trousers, a red jumper. He felt more in control. And he needed to show that to Mycroft today, if only to ensure his friend was not leave the hospital for any other destination other than 221 B Baker Street.

Satisfied, John left the bathroom. He spent some time eating the lunch Mary brought by (some sandwiches and homemade biscuits, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson) and then went downstairs to the morgue, to see if Molly was working that day.

Molly was there, looking at a file. She glanced up when John came by. "_John!_ Hi! How's Sherlock doing?"

John gave the pathologist a tired smile. "Still the same, I'm afraid. They are running some scans, to see how his ribs are healing."

Molly nodded sympathetically. "So he's still not out of the coma yet?"

John shook his head. "I spend almost two years trying to get the man to sleep, and the one time I want him to wake up, he doesn't!"

Molly smirked at John's mock-exasperation. "Same old Sherlock! Never does what he's told!"

"Maybe you should tell him to sleep! Maybe then he would wake up just to spite you, John!"

John turned around to see Clarky behind him, carrying print-outs that seemed to be copies of lab results.

John blushed. Despite the fact that he was six feet tall, Clarky was able to move through a room silently, when he chose to. "Oh, Clarky! I didn't know you were here…"

Clarky frowned. "John, despite what Stan may have told you, I do not _always_ show up at Bart's to be with Molly, although that would be reason enough! But today, I'm actually working on a murder case."

"I didn't mean…" John stammered, wishing he would melt into the floor and disappear.

"Oh, quit worrying, John! I'm just messing with you!" Clarky smiled. He turned to Molly. "Turns out you were right, Molly! Now we got Baxley for murder, if we can only get him to confess!"

"_Murder?_ What murder?" John asked.

"Remember the former Superintendent? The one that died mysteriously after he was arrested for telling Stan to forget about the incident at Bart's?" Molly asked.

"The one I punched the night that Sherlock and I were arrested. What about him?" John asked, interested.

"Wait! You punched the former Superintendent?!" Clarky interrupted, looking shocked.

"He insulted Sherlock." Molly explained.

"_Oh!_" Clarky replied, his forehead creased with thought. "Well, I never thought that you would do something like that, John! Good of you to stand by Lucky though!"

John gave Clarky a ghost of a smile. "You can't stop calling him 'Lucky,' can you?"

Clarky shrugged. "Figures it still fits! When you think about it, a 'sherlock' is a weed except for one day of the year, on Saint Patrick's Day. On that day, it is supposed to be good luck, and since Lucky is, well, _lucky,_ I figured it works!"

"He might disagree with you this time around." John said wearily.

Clarky scoffed good-naturedly. "Oh, ye of little faith! Yes, I know he's in a coma, but he'll come out of it! And before you know it, he will be back to shooting your walls and helping me come up with ways to annoy Anderson! I'm sure of it! And for once, it would do you Brits good to listen to the good old country boy! Because I know what I'm talking about!"

"Listen to him, John!" Molly said encouragingly. "Edward usually not wrong about these things."

"_Edward?_" John asked, looking back at Clarky.

Clarky shrugged. "My full name is Edward Clarkson the Fourth. As you probably have guessed by now, my parents were not too creative with names. And when I was born, my great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father were all still alive. So they were called Edward, Eddie Jr., and Ed, respectively. I wanted to stand out. I can't stand being called Eddie or Ed!"

"But you don't mind Edward?" John asked.

"Nah! Not really! I've just gotten so used to Clarky, so it naturally stuck. Molly here has been the only one calling me Edward!" Clarky smirked.

"So is it safe to say you two are officially a couple now?" John asked.

Molly rolled her eyes. "Let me guess! Stan told you about the Yard pool!"

John shrugged. "Actually, it was Anderson who told me! But don't worry about it! I was the subject a couple of months ago, when everyone was betting on when I was going to propose to Mary."

Clarky shook his head. "Anderson! That prat! I'll get him back, so help me! Although I'll wait for Lucky to get better. Maybe we will plant a body in his flat or something!"

This time, John's smile was genuine. Beneath all the Americanisms and corpse humor, Clarky was a man with the rare gift of being able to see the best in situations, and he could almost make you believe everything will be alright. "So Sherlock will have to live with you calling him 'Lucky.' Well, better than most of the names that I have heard him be called! So, what were you saying about this case?"

"Oh! Yeah! Sorry, I got distracted." Clarky apologized, clearing his throat. "Well, Molly, being the intelligent woman that she is, kept samples of the guy's blood, as the cause of death was still undetermined. After Baxley was arrested, Sally went through his financial records, hoping something would come up, like big payments from Moriarty, or something like that, so we can prove through independent evidence that he was out to get Greg." Clarky explained, pulling out a lab result and setting it on Molly's desk.

"Now, Sally didn't find evidence of any payments, but she did find something else. The day before the victim died, Baxley went to a pharmacy in a town a hundred miles away from London and filled a prescription for insulin."

"Insulin? I didn't know Baxley was a diabetic." John observed.

Clarky looked at John knowingly. "He's not! And there's no reason he needed it otherwise! So we decided to run some more tests. And Molly turned out to be right. Look at this."

Excitedly, Clarky pointing to one of the read-outs. "The Superintendent wasn't a diabetic either, but his blood glucose level is extremely low. Now, insulin is a hormone, and tends to degrade over time, but using the right tests, one can determine the amount of insulin a person was injected with to see if the amount in his system would have been normal or if it was an overdose directly administered! Molly did a superb job in storing the evidence! She kept them at the correct temperatures, and documented all the times that she took them out for testing! A defense attorney is going to have his hands full with her testifying!"

"Which means that Baxley probably snuck in, injected the man with a large dose of insulin, and left, making it look like the man died of a heart attack!" John realized.

"And because everyone was looking for poison, it was virtually untraceable." Molly observed, carefully reading the test. "Now the evidence we have is circumstantial, of course. Insulin is a naturally produced enzyme in the body, and it breaks down over time, even though the amount we found still is considered unusually high. We still have to prove how Baxley got in the cell with the victim. But once we do, it should be an open-and-shut case."

"I'm impressed." John said. "Sherlock would be proud of you two."

Clarky grinned. "If Molly didn't have the foresight to keep samples of the guy's blood, then we probably would never have been able to prove it!"

Molly flushed, her cheeks turning red. "Thank you, Clarky."

John smiled inwardly as he considered Molly and Clarky's relationship. Before Clarky arrived, he would have considered Molly to be a kind but timid woman, mousey in appearance and very unsure of herself in social situations.

Clarky, on the other hand, was comfortable no matter where he found himself, and he tried to help people see the best in themselves. But he was still an outsider, and his personality was such that people tended to marginalize his intelligence, just as they had with Molly's.

That was why Molly and Clarky were a perfect fit for each other. They encouraged one another. Clarky made Molly feel desired and beautiful, while Clarky to solace in Molly's unswerving determination

John chuckled. "Well, I can see you two are hard at work, so I'll leave you to finish it up. If…_when_ Sherlock wakes up, I'll let him know. Hopefully, he will decide he needs to get better soon, before you two start solving all the cases without him!"

"Like _that_ is going to happen!" Clarky replied. "You will call us and keep us updated, won't you?"

John nodded. "Believe me, when I know something, I plan on calling everyone! But I better get upstairs. Right now they should be done, and Mycroft is coming."

"Oh, yeah. The British Government personified. You have my sympathies, John." Clarky muttered. It was obvious that Mycroft still made Clarky somewhat uncomfortable. "Call me if he gives you or Lucky any problems. I'll organize a jail break if I have to."

John grinned at the thought of funny, easy-going Clarky racing down the hallway, guns blazing. "I appreciate it, Clarky." John answered. "I'll let you know what I find out."

"As you can see here, the ribs are calcifying quiet well." Dr. Sinclair explained as he pointed toward the relevant areas of the X-ray. "If you see this area, right here. That is where the bullet entered. It struck the rib, and shattered a part of it, but it is still healing very nicely. And we are certain we removed all the fractured pieces, so that there is no chance a sliver off bone will penetrate any of his organs in the future."

"If the bullet had not struck from that angle, it would have traveled upward and probably hit his left ventricle," John noted grimly. "And we would probably be discussing his autopsy report by now."

"What about the injuries to his skull?" Mycroft asked patiently.

Dr. Sinclair responded by lifting up a new x-ray. "As you can see, there seems to be no unusual swelling. The concussion he had was rather severe, but not enough to produce any permanent damage. So the fluctuations in his core temperature seems to be coming from the infections he keeps getting, and not from any damage to his brain."

Mycroft nodded stoically.

"How about his white blood cell count?" John asked. "How was it?"

"Still elevated, but not as much as it was a few days ago. Another sign that the counter measures we have used to combat the infections seems to be working." Dr. Sinclair confirmed. "As soon as the full labs are done, I will bring you the report for you to review."

"Thank you, Doctor." John said gratefully.

"We have already returned him to his room. The staff has probably finished redressing his wounds right about now." Dr. Sinclair replied, noticing John's anxious fidgeting.

"Would you be so kind as to stay with Sherlock for a moment, John." Mycroft spoke up. "I have a few questions for Dr. Sinclair, and I wish to discuss a few matters with him."

John paused. Why did Mycroft want him out of the room? Surely he wasn't planning on moving Sherlock to parts unknown…

"I assure you, John, that no decision will be made regarding my brother without your imput." Mycroft said airily, apparently reading his thoughts (again).

John lingered at the door, torn between wanting to check on Sherlock, but still wary of leaving Mycroft to discuss matters without him present.

Mycroft sighed impatiently, his mask slipped away momentarily to show an expression of annoyance. "John, I merely wish to discuss some security concerns with Dr. Sinclair. For precautionary purposes only! Sherlock's health will not be discussed! You have my word on that!"

Nodding hesitantly, John finally left the x-ray lab.

* * *

As promised, Sherlock was already placed back in the hospital bed, looking no different from what he did for the last two weeks.

The nurse, Rosie (yet another sign that John had spent far too much time in the hospital) was just finishing hooking the heart monitor back when she spotted John behind her. "Oh, John! Good afternoon!"

"Good afternoon to you, Rosie." John said politely, taking his customary place in the chair beside Sherlock's beside. "How are you doing?"

Rosie smiled gently as she brushed a stand of black hair from her face. "I'm doing alright. And you?"

"You mean besides waiting for this bastard to wake up?" John joked weakly, nodding toward Sherlock.

Rosie nodded sympathetically. "I wish he would too. My son is a big fan, and I would like to get an autograph for him."

"Your son is a fan?" John asked the woman, who looked to be in her mid-fifties.

Rosie smiled. "He participated in that march a year ago, with his friends. Spent most of the night camped out in front of Buckingham Palace."

John smirked. "Do you hear that, Sherlock?" He said, taking Sherlock's cold hand into his. "That's another reason for you to wake up! You have to sign autographs!"

Rosie blushed, embarrassed. "Sorry! I didn't mean to be rude, John."

John laughed hollowly. "No, no! It's fine! Sherlock hates fame, and I am trying to think of any excuse I can to wake him up! Because if he doesn't wake up soon, I may go find the hat he hates so much and put it on him!"

Rosie smirked. "That deerstalker hat?"

John grinned. "That one! He absolutely loathes it! He was trying to disguise himself from the press, and grabbed the first hat he could find!"

Rosie laughed while John joined in. He enjoyed these brief moments that he could share his memories of Sherlock with other people. Before the Bart's tape came out, there were few people who cared to learn about who Sherlock was. Most had already believed the press, and thus John felt isolated and alone.

If it were not for those Sherlockians, and those people from Fan Fiction, the truth may have never came out, and Sherlock would have returned, still labeled a fraud and a fake by the public, and John's life would probably been a venerable hell, provided he had lived through it.

People like Rosie's son, who had the ability to question, and to search for the truth instead of blindly believing everything they heard.

That was why he almost missed it when the cold hand he was clasping suddenly tightened around his.

* * *

_How long had he been here? In this fog? This…nothingness? _

_ Time seems to have no meaning here. Wherever "here" is, anyway. He doesn't know if he has been lost for a few hours, a few days, or a few years. _

_ Bloody hell, this was dull! The same featureless landscape, the same silence. If he didn't find a way out of here soon, he would likely die of severe boredom._

_ For some reason, it never occurred to him to be afraid. For one thing, there was nothing remotely scary about any of this. Nothing came to bother him, and yet he could feel a…prescence, for lack of a better word. Something was always with him, watching over him. And its intentions seemed benevolent, or indifferent, at least._

_ Frustrated, he sat down on the (ground?) and stared out into the gray landscape. He wished he could navigate his way out of here. When he had first arrived to this place, out of the darkness, he had mistakenly believed that he was at the docks near London, and that the Thames was gripped in a mysterious fog._

_ But when he realized he couldn't smell the river, or hear the lap of the waves as they hit the docks, then he knew he was wrong._

_ As if that wasn't bad enough, his memory palace was in complete shambles. Nothing made sense. Everything was flying around, mixed up, and he could make no sense of the data. In his head, he could see people, images, but he didn't recognize them. He didn't know their names…_

**_ A man sits behind an expensive and ornate desk, glancing at some papers. His reddish-brown hair is slicked back, and his appearance is immaculate. A black umbrella, with a carved wooden handle, sits by idly. This man, whoever he was, seems to be at complete ease here, in this world of order and tradition…_**

**_ An elderly woman, with laugh lines at the corners of her mouth, comes in to a strange room, decorated with four different types of wallpaper. She is carrying in a laundry basket, which she places on a nearby leather sofa. She walks over to a nearby kitchen, with lots of glass beakers and a microscope on the table. She turns around and looks cross. Probably because of the mess. Nevertheless, he feels a feeling of fondness towards this tiny woman…_**

**_ A man, an officer no less, sits behind a beat-up wooden desk, with a pile of files organized on one corner. His hair is light brown, with streaks of grey, and there are bags under his eyes, from habitual lack of sleep. A light spot around one of his fingers denotes where a ring had once been. He looks so tired…_**

**_ A different woman, sitting naked on a chair. She is smiling, and her gaze is taunting him, daring him to learn something about her. Why he was even here escapes his memory, for the moment, but he is nevertheless intrigued. This woman, whomever she was, was undeniably clever, as well as beautiful. But she was smug too, as though he was just another opponent that she would conquer with relatively little effort. He would personally enjoy showing her that he was not so easily manipulated…_**

**_ A child, with dark curls, runs around in the snow, her expression full of joy as she celebrates this brief period of freedom under the open sky. The snowflakes glisten in her hair, and her purple scarf flies behind her, like a flag, as she playfully cups a scope of snow and lobs it in his direction, then squeaks with delight as she dodges the snowball he had thrown back at her. Her bluish-grey eyes twinkle with merriment as she stoops down to make another snowball to throw at him…_**

**_ A man, with blonde hair, looks up from his laptop, his expression a cross between mild exasperation and amusement. He is wearing an ill-fitted black knitted jumper, and a cane is leaning nearby. Smirking, he grabs a nearby pillow imprinted with the Union Jack, and throws it in his direction. "It's your turn to get the milk, Sherlock!"_**

_ Sherlock?_

_ Was that his name? Was that who he was?_

* * *

**_"What are you still here for? Don't tell me you like the scenery!"_**

_ Puzzled, he looked around. The grey landscaped hadn't changed at all. There was no one there. No one but him._

_ So who was talking?_

_It wasn't the presence that he felt before, the kind presence that seemed to watch over him. No, this was different. Something that shouldn't be here, but was nevertheless. Something he couldn't see, yet instinctively knew was nearby._

_** "I have to go now, Sherlock."** The voice said. **"And it's time for you to go back. You have been here long enough."**_

_** "Who are you?"** He asked the mysterious voice hidden in the fog (although he wasn't sure if he was actually talking, or just thinking the words aloud). **"How did you know my name?"**_

_** "Don't concern yourself with that."** The voice said tenderly. **"I just wanted to say goodbye. And to say thank you. For helping me realize that I am a freak, and not a monster! For saving them. For...saving her! So, just...thank you. For everything."**_

_ Panic filled him as he spun around. He had no idea what the unseen person was talking about, but it was one thing to be alone because you had no choice as opposed to being alone because everyone left you. **"Don't leave me alone here!"**_

_** "Sherlock,"** the voice said kindly (which he just realized came from a female). **"You never were alone."**_

_ Suddenly, the gray landscape disappears, leaving him in the darkness once more._

* * *

Oh, bloody hell! Now he couldn't see! _Again!_

He thought he had left all this behind earlier! At least the fog had _color!_ (Yes, it was _gray_! An unending sea of gray, but it was still better than _this!)_

But this darkness was…nothing. And it made him feel trapped.

He hated the dark. He didn't _fear_ it, exactly, but it had always made him uneasy. He preferred to use his senses, to know what was around him, instead of being trapped in this…_sensory deprivation!_ But now it was dark, and dull, and cold, and he wanted to get the _fuck_ out of here…

"Sherlock?"

Pressure. Someone was holding his hand. While the rest of him was cold, his hand was warm. Had he been able to move, he probably would have curled himself around that warmth. But he couldn't, so he squeezed his hand around whatever-it-was, unwilling to let it go.

"Sherlock?!"

Someone was calling his name. _Sherlock._ Yes, that was it. His name was Sherlock Holmes. He was a consulting detective, the only one in the world. Something bad had happened, although the details escaped him for the moment, and he had been away from home for a long time. John couldn't come with him. Not this time…

"Sherlock! Are you there? Are you awake?! Open your eyes! _Please!_"

_Wait!_ His eyes were closed? _That_ was why it was so dark?

_Stupid!_ How could he be so stupid?! Throughly irritated with himself, he tried to open his eyes, only to find he couldn't.

Had someone blindfolded him? Glued his eyelids shut? Why couldn't he get them to open?

"Sherlock?"

The second effort was better. This time, he managed to pry his eyes open a little. White light filled everything, and he instinctively closed his eyes again, because the light hurt so much.

And with the return of the light came the awareness that every part of his body ached terribly, as though he was put through a meat grinder.

"I think he's waking up. Mr. Holmes, can you understand us? Squeeze your hand if you understand."

It wasn't John speaking now. Someone unfamiliar to him. Still, squeezing his hand shouldn't feel like he had just run a marathon…

"That's it! Sherlock, can you open your eyes again? Please?"

As it was John asking him, almost as though he was begging, Sherlock forced his eyes open again. Everything looked blurred, as though he had slept for a year. He blinked, then tried to focus on his surroundings.

People. There were people around him. A man with scrubs, wearing glasses. A well-dressed man, with a suit, and a silk tie. And the last one, in the crumpled jumper, gripping his hand.

John.

The former army doctor smiled brightly, yet his eyes were glistening. Was John crying? Why should John be crying, when he looked so happy?

It made no sense!

_But emotions never did, did they?_

"Hey! Welcome back!" John said, his calm voice failing to pass the elation on his face.

"Sherlock." The man with the suit said. "Do you know who I am?"

Sherlock blinked. Yes, he knew this man as well. Mycroft, his older brother. Except he seemed smaller than he remembered.

Was there a recession that caused the Government to not stock the dessert bar? Or had Mycroft recently gotten over an illness?

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said again, leaning over. "Do you remember me at all?"

Sherlock tried to speak. He really did. But he couldn't. His throat felt as though it was brunt from the inside out, and there was an unnatural feeling that something was forced down his windpipe.

_Oh, so I've been intubated! Crap!_

_I must have done something incredibly stupid this time! That is probably why Mycroft is here, to lecture me about risk-taking, or for jeopardizing my health!_

_But we had a rule! No coming to see each other in the hospital unless one of us was in danger of dying, and I most certainly am not dying!_

And yet here he is, seeing me like...this! _Damn!_

_Well, if he wants to know if I know who he is, and since I can't talk..._

* * *

"_Sherlock!" _ Mycroft fumed. "I would have thought that at our age, we were past the point where we used vulgar hand gestures at each other!"

John and Dr. Sinclair were too busy laughing at Mycroft's exasperated expression to properly berate Sherlock for his "rudeness."

"You _did_ ask him if he knew who you were, Mycroft!" John giggled. "And since he can't talk right now, he communicated the best way he knew how to!"

"And thus you excuse him for using his middle finger to greet me, John?" Mycroft looked over at the two doctors, the picture of affronted dignity. "And I find that rude, crude, and socially unacceptable, Sherlock!" Mycroft turned to give his young brother an irate glance.

If anyone could have pulled off looking smug while having a trachea tube inserted into his throat, then Sherlock had definitely succeeded.

_How else was I suppose to talk to you, Mycroft?_ Sherlock thought to himself silently. _Morse code?_

"And I didn't break the rule, by the way!" Mycroft said pointedly.

Sherlock's breathing changed subtly, and his bluish-gray eyes widened slightly as he focused on his older brother.

_Wait! Is Mycroft implying that I was dying?_

"Rule? What rule?" John asked, still clasping his warm hand over Sherlock's cold one, which had curled into a fist after he used all of his strength to flip his brother off.

"It is just a rule that Sherlock and I made for ourselves long ago, John." Mycroft said, his face softening slightly. "I deduce that Sherly here believed I was here to lecture him on his behavior. But there is plenty of time for that later."

Sherlock responded by narrowing his eyes at his brother, but it seemed as though he was studying him, not glaring at him.

_What is going on? What happened to me?_

"Mr. Holmes." Dr. Sinclair said calmly. "Listen to me very carefully. I know you are probably confused right now, but you are going to be fine. You are in the hospital, recovering from your injuries, but you should recover nicely. Can you squeeze Dr. Watson's hand, so that we know that you understand us?"

Sherlock's grasp was weaker this time, and his eyes were starting to close.

_Why was he so exhausted?_

"He understands, Dr. Sinclair." John said, glancing back at the surgeon before turning back to Sherlock. "But I think he is getting tired."

Sherlock wanted to argue with that assertion. There was something going on here, and he needed more data.

_But he was so tired..._

His last conscious thought was gratitude when John squeezed his hand again before he drifted off.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Not much going on here...except that Sherlock is officially out of his coma!

Did any of you think I was really going to let Sherlock die? After going through all that trouble to bring him back?

Yes, he's a bit confused right now. I would be too, if I were in his condition. But he will remember what had happened, once he gets more lucid.

But he was lucid enough to flip Mycroft off, at least! Hah! The joy of having younger siblings!

I'm not too happy with this chapter. I prefer the action and humor parts of my story, not the angst and the boring hospital stuff (did I just sound like Sherlock just then?)

In other news, we have revisited the death of the former Superintendent. My sister has Type I diabetes, and has to have regular insulin injections to keep her blood glucose level in check, so I know quite a bit about the disease. I advice people to google it if you have questions about what it entails.

However, a quick lesson. Type I diabetes is when the pancreas, the organ that naturally produces an enzyme called insulin (which control the glucose, or "blood sugar"), is no longer functioning and thus produces little or no insulin at all. Fewer than ten percent of all people who are diabetics are Type I, and it can be caused by anything (a car accident or severe injury that damages the pancreas, a virus, or even, in rare cases, a cold). My sister got diabetes after contracting chicken pox. Thus, all Type I diabetics must automatically get insulin through injections in order to stay healthy.

Type II diabetes, on the other hand, is the condition that affects more than ninety percent of all of those who have diabetes. Unlike Type I, a person who has Type II diabetes have a pancreas that are still producing insulin. However, the insulin itself seems to be less effective, and does not work the way it should. People with Type II can take pills and/or insulin shots to stay healthy.

So why is this relevant? Patience, please!

If you gave someone insulin who does not have diabetes, the person would die without prompt medical treatment (the symptoms resembling those of a heart attack), and the insulin, being a naturally produced enzyme in the human body, would not show up on toxicology screens, because it is not considered a foreign substance or a poison. This is the way the Superintendent was killed by Baxley, and why the murder went undetected. Also, as insulin is an enzyme (a protein) it will break down over time if not properly stored. That is why liquid insulin must be kept refrigerated at certain temperature, or it will break down and no longer work.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own "Sherlock." And just for the record, I don't sit around and think of how I plan on murdering anyone with my sister's medication! I got the idea from a murder case where a man preformed a "mercy killing" on his terminally ill wife. Also, it was a method the killer used on an episode of "Murder, She Wrote."

**Peaceful Defender**-Ok! We are each here because we have a problem, and we are seeking help in identifying it and helping each other out. So I'll start! (Stands up from chair) Hi! My name is Peaceful Defender, and I secretly enjoy writing crazy stories!

(Everyone in support group)-Hi, Peaceful Defender!

**John Watson**-Hello, my name John Watson, and I am absolutely miserable if I am not chasing down criminals, facing life-threatening situations, or am being kidnapped at least once a month. So I am an adrenaline junkie!

**Mycroft Holmes**-Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! My name is Mycroft Holmes. I enjoying spying on people. And just for the record, I know all about each of you, and I am planning to set up surveillance on you all, once I have completed a detailed security check of your past.

(The people in the support group cringe and back away from Mycroft)

**Peaceful Defender** (shrugs)-At least he _admits_ it!

**OC Clarky**-Hi! I'm Clarky, and I love my guns!

**OC Chase Douglas** (sulking)-I'm Chase, and I'm only here because the DMP thinks I am addicted to caffeine, which I'm not!

**Peaceful Defender**-Chase! We are _trying_ to help you!

**OC Clarky**-Yeah! I mean, I am giving up _some_ of my guns, so surely you can learn to limit your coffee intake!

**OC Chase Douglas** (cries pitifully)-_I'm not addicted to caffeine!_ Just ask the readers!

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, if the readers think we shouldn't continue this intervention, then we won't! So we will wait and hear from them!


	34. Chapter 33

**Warning: Language, and more problems with my OCs! Be warned!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Three: Recovery**

Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity. Hippocrates

* * *

**_From the private blog of Chase Douglas, hacker extrodinare._**

**_ To my dear fans, I am so sorry for not updating my blog in a while. Completely not my fault, I promise. I planned on updating earlier, but what with working for the DMP, finding Sherlock, taking out Moriarty (ding dong, the bastard's gone!), and otherwise trying to get a date with my goddess, Anthea (who is still playing hard to get), I've been __so__ busy. I am sorry to make you all wait._**

_** Well, where do I begin? As you no doubt heard on the news, they found Sherlock Holmes alive** **(happy day for us Sherlockians), and he's recovering at (**_**_deleted for purposes of National Security__). Because __someone__ is a little paranoid (yes, I am looking at you, DMP!), I can't give out the address so you guys can send "Get Well" cards, as some of you have already asked. _**

**_But worry not, my friends! John said that we can send all our messages to his blog site (which is up and running again) and he will make sure Sherlock reads them all!_**

_** Anyways, we had a bit of a scare yesterday. For a moment, Sherlock got all shaky, and everyone thought he was going downhill. But it turns out that it was just him coming out of his coma! The DMP said that Sherlock used sign language or something to show that he recognized him! Awesome!** **Although I didn't know Sherlock knew sign language!**_

**_As for Sherlock, he passed out again soon after that and is slowly coming out of it. And by slowly, I mean "snail's pace." He's still not completely awake yet. It must be the morphine they keep him on. I should be so lucky!_**

_** Oh, yeah. You guys don't know. A few hours after they found Sherlock, Monsoon Season erupted all over London. It has been raining. Non-stop. And I'm not talking about just any old rain! I'm talking about torrential downpour to the point that we may be washed-out-to-sea flooded!** _

**_ The only person who seemed prepared for this is the only other American around here, Clarky. Maybe it's a southern thing. Maybe because he saw what happened with Hurricane Katrina and he wanted to be prepared. I don't know. _**

**_But, seriously, this guy keeps things in his car and is prepared for __any__ emergency. He sent me some DVDs to take the edge of my boredom, as well as some coffee! The man is a saint! I bet he has an inflatable raft and life jackets in his trunk, just in case. If it keeps raining, I may soon find out. _**

_**But with the rain and everything, the DMP got called away on some emergency (the Underground had to be shut down, can you believe it?), so I am stuck on security detail watching monitors of the hospital where Sherlock's at to keep Mycroft updated on his brother's condition. My punishment for helping the Chimera leave earlier!** _

**_Ugh! DMP, lighten up! It will never happen again! I promise! _**

**_I only have the other people on security detail here to talk to, and they are so __serious__. Very depressing. Sherlock's on the (__deleted for purposes of National Security__) floor, so little chance of him drowning right now. However, I am in real danger of dying. From boredom. _**

**_ Recently, my goddess, Anthea, has been eyeing me suspiciously, especially since I tried to engage her in a debate about whether or not we existed in the Matrix. I also tried to ask the security team that if they all trapped on a life raft and they had to decide that one of them had to be thrown overboard, which one would they choose? _**

**_Some of the answers I got cannot be posted on this blog. You think they could lighten up!_**

**_If none of you hear from me again, it is likely because I suffered a psychotic break from reality. Probably from all the coffee I drank. Or the rain. Hopefully they'll give me whatever Sherlock's on._**

**_This is Chase Douglas, signing off._**

* * *

___November 20th, eighteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

_Sherlock is cradling John's body. John's cold, still body. He held him closer, hoping furtively that some of his own body heat will somehow miraculously revive the shell that had once housed his dearest friend. The eyes that were once lit up were now glass marbles, glazed and unseeing. Heedless to the pool of blood that slowly spread on the ground around him, Sherlock felt his very soul sink into the lowest pit of despair imaginable. He would have died for John! Why? Why…_

_ Sherlock is in a white room. His arms are restrained. No windows, no furniture, nothing. Nothing at all. Suddenly people enter from a doorway that just appeared. Orderlies in stark white uniforms grab him and unceremoniously start dragging him out of the room. He panics. Where are they taking him? He doesn't understand! He hadn't done anything! The men ignore him. There is no emotion on their faces. No pity, no compassion, nothing. It's as if they were handling a piece of machinery. Something without feelings…_

_ Sherlock wakes up, confused, to find himself in a dark space. Where was he? He realizes that he is flat on his back. Cautiously, he tries to sit up, only to hit unyielding wood a few feet above. What the hell? The smell of wood and of freshly disturbed dirt assaulted his nose. They buried him alive! They must have thought he was dead, but he's still alive! Screaming, he kicks wildly into the wood, claws desperately into the coffin lid, ignoring the burning pain and blood dripping down his hands. _

_I'm alive! Please let me out! I don't want to die like this! Don't leave me alone! JOHN…_

_John…_

Gasping, Sherlock jolted upright. And immediately he wished he hadn't. A bolt of searing pain, like a fire brand, encircled his throat, both inside and out. He moaned. The sound that came out sounded strangely garbled, as if someone had put an egg in the place where his voice originated from.

He had sore throats before, of course, but they _never_ hurt like this. It felt like his entire neck was aflame. And his chest hurt too, like he was run over by the entire London underground.

_Did I get injured?_ _Shot? How did I get here? _

_I hope I didn't overdose again…_

Suddenly he remembered.

_The rooftop at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. Watching John speak at his grave. Leaving ignomiously on a plane for parts unknown. His brief stay at the Body Farm. The letter from Dani. Meeting Sheridan for the first time. The time they sent in Las Vegas with Irene. Traveling to Japan. Taking down the Black Locusts. The time Sheri got sick, and they had to stay with the monks at Nepal. The hunt around various parts of the world for Moriarty's men. The trip to Egypt. Coming home. The call to Irene. Seeing Sheri for the last time. Being stabbed by the Satanic Slasher. The hotel. The showdown with Moriarty. The crawl through the tunnels._

And then…then what?

_Damn, why couldn't he remember?!_

"Sherlock! Calm down. You're fine."

_John. _

John is there, gently forcing him to lay back down. "Just relax, ok? You're going to be fine."

Sherlock tried to nod, tell let John know he did understand, but nodding only succeeded in aggravating his sore throat again. He fell limp onto the pillow, fighting the burning and that nausea that was hitting him in waves.

_If I heave out, with my throat as sore as it was, it may be enough to kill me._

_How did I get here, anyway?_

"Doctor Watson. Is everything alright?" Asked a female voice, coming from a vantage point that Sherlock couldn't see.

"Yes, yes. Everything is fine." John assured the woman absently.

"Shall I go see the doctor about a sedative again?"

John rubbed his hand through his hair. "I don't think that will be needed right now. But maybe we need some more painkillers. And tell the respiratory therapist to come in here, if you don't mind."

Sherlock wanted to argue that he did not need any painkillers. He was a recovering drug addict. He didn't need to put himself on the path toward another recurrence.

And he definitely deserved all the pain he was feeling right now.

But his voice would not cooperate. So he just closed his eyes in frustration. He focused on breathing while he used his other senses to learn more about where he was.

_Smell of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. Can also detect commercial grade soap and several other scents. Cool linen sheets. Several soft blankets. He also felt some objects under his arms, radiating heat. Hot water bottles, perhaps. Despite this, his right arm, particularly his elbow, was cold. And his left side throbbed dully. A steady sound could be heard in the background. Rain against a window?_

Opening his eyes slightly, Sherlock took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. As he expected, he was in a hospital room. He was slightly relieved to see that instead of wearing one of those hideous hospital gowns, he was actually clad in a pair of pale blue pajamas.

_Someone who obviously knew about his distaste for hospitals had at least done what they could to make him comfortable._

Under his clothing he could feel where someone had bandaged his left side, as well as his chest. The skin underneath the bandage felt warmer and slightly itchy. His arms and hands were also bandaged.

The cold feeling in his crook of his elbow was explained when he saw the I.V. line attached to a bag of intravenous fluids, probably attached to replace lost nutrients. Sherlock tried to move his arm, only to find that it wouldn't budge.

It took a moment for his mind to figure out why.

Under the blankets, Sherlock could feel that both of his arms were rendered immobile through the use of some type of restraints. Not ropes or handcuffs, which would have caused chaffing, but Velcro restraints that hospitals use to keep a patient from moving around too much.

_Why am I restrained? Did Moriarty somehow frame me again? Do they think I am dangerous?_

"Here, let me wipe these off real quick, before she comes back, alright?"

Sherlock opened his eyes a little more to see John gingerly wiping his face off with a tissue.

_Have I been crying while I slept?_

"There you go." John said, taking the tissue away. "Now, just focus on breathing. They took the trachea tube out this morning so you could breathe on your own. You probably don't remember it, though. You were kind of out of it."

Sherlock continued to work on slowing his breathing. Now that he recalled what happened, he certainly didn't want to go into respiratory distress and be intubated again. His throat was in enough pain as it is without a damned plastic tube being forced down it!

"I think the hospital may move you to a room where you can see visitors later on. I keep getting calls from the Yard wanting to know when. So we can't have them come in and see you like this, can we?" John continued, as though trying to get Sherlock distracted from his discomfort. He reached down with his hand to push back the hair from Sherlock's face before collapsing back into a nearby chair.

_Why would anyone from Scotland Yard want to be here?_ Fragments of his dream came back, which caused Sherlock to tremble violently, despite the warmth of the room.

_Perhaps, instead of being committed, they are going to lock me up?_

John, mistakenly thinking that Sherlock was just cold, immediately reached for the blanket that he had been using earlier and covered Sherlock with it. "You need to take it easy, Sherlock! Your body is still recovering from shock and hypothermia. We need to guard against rewarming collapse. That means you could have a sudden drop of blood pressure, if you are not careful. You have to stay still and conserve your body heat. You also need to stay calm, no matter what." His voice was concerned.

For one of the few times times in his life, the various voices, sensations, and data that flowed through Sherlock's brain without pause suddenly ceased. The world had stopped moving.

Somehow, despite having doubts to the contrary, John was here. With Sherlock.

_How was that possible?_

Almost immediately, Sherlock's mind jumped back into gear and gave him the answer.

_Sheridan._

Instead of going to Mycroft, as he had originally deduced, Sheridan must have found John and told him what Sherlock did, which would explain why he was now in a hospital instead of slowly decomposing under London's streets.

He knew Mycroft. And Mycroft would never had let John know. So it could only had been Sheridan.

He half-expected Sheri would tell eventually, but he still felt a wave of irritation run through him.

Didn't he tell Sheri, again and again, not to tell _anyone_ that he was still alive? _That it would cause problems!_

Because that was what was happening, wasn't it? If John knew, then other people knew too.

_Which means that they knew that he lied to them. _

Sherlock groaned as he realized that an impeding conversation was certainly going to happen later between himself and Mycroft. A conversation that he was not going to be able to contribute much to, as he was rendered mute.

Sherlock swallowed again, feeling the overall soreness and dryness in his throat. Looking back up at John, he looked toward his right arm, then moved it slightly, trying to get his question across to John.

"Are you asking why your arms are being restrained? No, don't move your head. Just blink your eyes. Twice for yes, once for no."

Sherlock complied, deliberately opening and closing his eyes twice.

"Well, your body had a tough time for awhile. Your body temperature fluctuated quite a bit. One day you would be hypothermic, and the next day you would have a fever. You started to wake up yesterday, but I think you were a bit delirious, because you thrashed around so much that you almost ripped open your stiches again. And considering how much blood you lost…well, I don't know how much more blood Mycroft can donate." John finished awkwardly.

Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes. John certainly _seemed_ calm enough. He probably had gotten over the shock of learning that Sherlock was still alive.

But knowing the doctor, he couldn't have been too pleased about it.

And if the Yard knew he was alive, then the _whole bloody world_ knew he was alive! Scotland Yard couldn't keep a secret, no matter _what_ the circumstances.

Sherlock cringed as he imagined the headlines in those pathetic rags that pretend that they are reporting facts. The media doesn't report facts. They report _stories_, with a beginning, a middle, and some sort of ending. But rarely facts.

Taking a moment, Sherlock glanced around the room to get more data. He noticed a couple of arrangements on the window sill. Several dozen, all told.

_Flowers, how sentimental!_

He has seen enough flower arrangements, when he saw his grave. He never particularly liked them before, but now they made him feel sick. He associated flowers with betrayal.

He lied to John, and John left flowers at his grave.

His stomach twisted with pain (or guilt), and he closed his eyes again, wishing to die.

_It was no less than what he deserved._

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, sir? Are you awake?"

Sherlock groaned. _If there was a higher power at work somewhere, it seemed to enjoy pushing petty torments Sherlock's way to further compound his punishment._ He pried opened his eyes to see the source of the voice.

A woman, around fifty years old. Scrubs, white lab coat, hair bleached blonde, as was evident by the brown roots showing at the crown of her head. Thick make-up. No ring. Single, but dating. Probably someone at the hospital.

"Mr. Holmes? My name is Dr. Mason. I'm the respiratory therapist. Can you blink twice to let me know if you understand?"

_What was with doctors and them telling him to blink twice for "yes" and once for "no?" Was it something they taught at medical school?_ Wearily, Sherlock deliberately blinked his eyes twice.

"Good. I just need to check a couple of things here." Dr. Mason said, prying open one of his eye lids and shining a light into them.

If Sherlock could have, he would have turned away and hollered words that probably would not be used in polite society. But he was unable to do either.

"Ah! Good response to visual stimuli." Dr. Mason muttered, repeating the process with the other eye before finally clicking off her light. John hovered a few feet away, looking intently at Sherlock as though he expected him to disappear. "Ok, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to ask you a few questions. I need you to blink twice for 'yes' and once for 'no.' Do you think you can do that for me?"

_Why can't these damned doctors just give me a pen and paper? Or a phone to text with? _Sighing with annoyance, Sherlock blinked his eyes twice.

"Good. Now, are you experiencing any severe burning pain anywhere?"

Sherlock blinked his eyes twice.

"Is the pain coming from your side?"

There was a throb there, but nothing compared to his neck. He blinked once.

"Is the worst pain here?" Dr. Mason asked, gently brushing her fingers on the side of Sherlock's neck. He winced, and blinked twice.

"Well, that's to be expected, since it got infected. Let me take your temperature real quick, just to see how we are doing." Dr. Mason said calmly. She took an electronic thermometer out of the pocket in her lab coat and held it to Sherlock's ear. It beeped a few moments later.

"Thirty-six degrees Celsius. Hmm." Frowning, the doctor reached for the chart and flipped through the first few pages.

John looked slightly distressed. "His temperature's fluctuating again! When we checked yesterday, it was at thirty-eight degrees!"

"True, but I think that just means that the new antibiotics we administered are succeeding in killing the new infection. We'll keep an eye on it though." The doctor nodded, satisfied with her findings.

_Do they think I can't hear them?_ Sherlock thought, exasperated.

"Ok, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to just have a look at your neck. This is going to be a little uncomfortable, but I need to check to see how your wounds are healing. Can you stay still for me until I'm finished?" Dr. Mason asked.

Sherlock blinked twice.

_The sooner she was done, the sooner he could wallow in his misery in peace._

Moving with rapid efficiency, Dr. Mason unwrapped the bandages surrounding Sherlock's throat and peeled them back. Sherlock couldn't see them, of course, but he caught John flinching at the sight of them, while Dr. Mason's eyes filled up with concern and pity.

_Was it really that bad?_

Dr. Mason wasted little time in running her hands over Sherlock's throat, gently probing to check for any absesses. Sherlock winced when she touched a particularly tender area near where the Golem had cut him, but otherwise the examination was quick, although it was rather uncomfortable.

Satisfied, Dr. Mason put fresh dressings on the wounds.

"They look a lot better than they did yesterday. The swelling has definitely receded. If his temperature goes back up again, then we will try something else. Right now, we will stay with the same course of treatment."

John nodded, his mouth a thin line. "Very well. I'll see you later, Doctor Mason."

Dr. Mason smiled as she adjusted the medication in Sherlock's I.V. "You should get some rest, Dr. Watson. And you as well, Mr. Holmes. I'll be by to check on you later." She quickly turned around and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he fought to keep his eyes open. His throat _was_ still hurting, but not nearly as much as before. The drug (morphine?) that Dr. Mason administered was slowly flowing through his veins, taking away the worst of the pain, but leaving him feeling extremely drowsy.

And he didn't want to go to sleep. He had just woken up!

"Ok, then." John nodded before reaching out and encasing Sherlock's cold hand with his rough, warm one. "Why don't you get some rest? You look awful."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, ignoring the wave of dizziness that went through him. The _last _thing he wanted to do was sleep.

He wanted to know what became of Moriarty, for starters.

"Well, no offense, mate, but your neck looks like it could qualify for a story in a medical journal. It looks worse than the decomposing eyeballs you left in the microwave that time!"

_So his throat looks worse than one of his experiments? _

_Interesting…_

"Forget it! I'm not taking pictures of it for you to see later. Personally, I feel sick every time I look at it!" John huffed, slightly annoyed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _He didn't think his thoughts were that obvious!_

John chuckled tiredly, then pulled his chair closer to Sherlock's bed. "Glad to see you awake, though. You had us all worried. Too bad you can't receive visitors yet. Greg texts me several times a day to see how you are doing. And Sheri's been worried sick."

Sherlock looked back at John, eyes wide. _Was Sheri okay? How was she dealing with the fact he was in a hospital? Was she being looked after?_

"What is it?" John asked. "What do you want?"

Sherlock knew he couldn't speak. So how could he communicate with John?

His hard drive was struggling, due to injuries, the drugs, or both. He tried to speak Sheridan's name, but no sound came out

"Oh! You are asking about Sheridan, aren't you?" John exclaimed.

_Who else would I be asking about?!_ Sherlock thought irritably.

John giggled when he saw Sherlock roll his eyes impatiently. "Fine, fine! Since you are so concerned about your daughter, being the sociopath that you are and all, I'll tell you! Sheridan is fine. She's been staying at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson and Mary are busy trying to spoil her. We already got a room set up for her. You know the huge room beside my bedroom? The unfinished attic?"

Sherlock blinked his eyes twice in acknowledgement.

"Well, Mycroft's people came in and converted part of the room into a bedroom for her. It's small, but they fixed it up the way she wanted it. It's decorated with purple, too. I don't know why you and her like purple so much! Sheridan thanked Mycroft once it was done, of course. But you were still in a coma, so she wasn't herself." John explained.

Sherlock scowlded. He mouthed the word "Why."

"Sherlock, for a genius, you can be pretty dumb sometimes, you know that? Sheridan has been moping around the flat the last two weeks! She missed you, and was worried sick you wouldn't wake up. Greg had her with him at the Met when I called to tell them that you woke up yesterday, and Greg told me that it was the first time Sheridan had actually _smiled_ since you were admitted!" John grumbled, irritated with Sherlock's obtuseness.

Sherlock pondered John's words. He had a lot to make up for, as far as Sheri was concerned.

She always hated hospitals, even more so than Sherlock did. It probably would have been less tramatic for her if he had died…

"Oh, stop moping, Sherlock!" John cut in, an undertone of kindness in his voice. "Sheridan's going to be just fine! She's a strong girl, and she'll get through this. Just like you will, as long as you listen to the doctors and behave for once."

Sherlock glanced over at John, an inquisitive expression on his face.

_How much did John know, exactly?_

John looked over at Sherlock and grinned. "What? Are you wondering how much Sheri told me?"

Sherlock blinked twice.

John smirked. "She told me enough. For example, I know a lot of what happened after you came and got her after Ms. Morray passed away."

Sherlock sighed. Sheridan told them _everything!?_ About the times he and her worked on her deducing skills? When he took her to the circus on her birthday? The incident in Tibet?

_How was he ever going to live this down!?_

"I also learned quite a bit from Clarky as well." John explained, noticing the look of embarrassment on Sherlock's face and finding himself amused by it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. _So Clarky did take his advice and come to tell Molly how he felt about her!_

Even though _he_ was the one who suggested the idea in the first place, he didn't _actually_ think Clarky would do it!

"That was very nice of you, by the way. To encourage Clarky to tell Molly that he had a crush on her for a long time. They have been dating for several months now. I don't think I have ever seen Molly so happy before."

Sherlock made a face. _So now he was a damned matchmaker? What next? Telling people what their futures held? Picking out lottery numbers?_

He had a feeling that his past would come back to haunt him, but certainly not in the form of the wisecracking American from the Body Farm!

"Don't be like that, Sherlock!" John lectured. "Clarky's not so bad! He been spending the last few days trying to convince the Yard what a good guy you are! He's been regaling us with tales of karaoke bars and the experiments you two preformed on poor, unsuspecting corpses! Oh, and there was also that little thing about shock blankets…"

Sherlock gave John a weak glare that was almost comical.

John grinned. "Don't think you are getting off easy, though! The doctors think you need to stay at least three more weeks before they discharge you, so we have plenty of time to talk, once you are able to!"

Now Sherlock felt like screaming.

_Three weeks in the hospital! _

_That wasn't fair!_

The door abruptly opened again, and a familiar figure strolled in, his posh leather shoes making little noise. "Ah, John! I have been informed by Mr. Douglas that my wayward brother has awoken. I am pleased that he apparently is in the right frame of mind to communicate, although I am hoping for a less vulgar greeting than before."

Sherlock sighed again, this time from impatience. He had so many questions, and so little data. He hoped that Mycroft would oblige him for once and apprise him of the current situation before launching into one of his lectures.

Mycroft caught his eye and nodded understandingly.

"In case you have any doubts, I can assure you that James Moriarty met his inevitable demise on the pavement just outside the Pyramid Storage building. Don't be concerned, I am absolutely certain as to the identity of the body. What's more, your daughter was kind enough to provide a DNA sample for comparison. The body that we have is that of James Moriarty, a.k.a. James Morray. The remaining members of his empire have already been accounted for. The few who are still free are being rounded up as we speak." Mycroft explained.

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, ignoring the tightness in his throat.

"Of course, I am not taking any chances on the matter." Mycroft continued. "My men will continue to watch over John, Ms. Morstan, Inspector Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson until we are certain the danger is over. They will also watch over Sheridan as well, of course. She has been instrumental in identifying anyone with ties to Moriarty's organization. Thanks to her cooperation, there have been several key arrests over the last few weeks."

_Good_, Sherlock wanted to say. Despite being thorough in his efforts to take down Moriarty's empire, Sherlock still felt uneasy about the situation, especially after learning just how vast Moriarty's empire really was.

Personally, Sherlock would never be certain that the people he somehow came to care for would _ever_ be safe.

"You will also be pleased to know that necessary steps have already been taken so that your status had now been officially corrected. Although I am sure you enjoyed your little _hiatus,_ it would have been difficult for Scotland Yard to consult with a detective who was declared legally dead. It creates problems with their paperwork, you understand." Mycroft's voice carried only a slight hint of disapproval.

Sherlock sighed again. This time, it was from relief.

_So it appeared he was not under arrest for anything, at least not at the moment. _

"You do realize, of course, that had I been apprised of the situation earlier, I could have offered assistance, and you would not have been grieveously injured and wondering around in the sewers." Mycroft said, his tone cool. "Can you imagine the angst dear Mummy felt when I had to tell her? It's a good thing you will have so much time to reflect on that as you recover!"

Sherlock turned his head to glare at his older brother. But as he was clad in pajamas, with his hair touseled and his eyes glazed over and unfocused from the pain medication, he looked much more like a sick child than a consulting detective at the moment.

Mycroft smirked. "Why are you getting so upset, little brother? I would have thought that after all the excitement, you would welcome a brief period of recouperation."

Sherlock wanted to argue, but his eyelids were getting heavier and heavier by the second.

_Damn that morphine! _

Someone grasped his hand again, and he heard John's voice. "Just rest, Sherlock. You can argue with your brother later."

"I concur with John. We can discuss matters further when you are able." Mycroft said. In a rare act of affection, he reached over and gently pushed the hair away from Sherlock's face. "But now you need to rest. Any questions you may have can certainly wait."

Sherlock nodded absently as he closed his eyes. It looked like he was going to rest, whether he liked it or not, so might as well pretend he was still in control, and not at the mercy of his ridiculous body, which apparently was run down to the point that immediate action was not available to him.

Besides, John was still here with him. He and Mycroft would deal with everything until he was on his feet again, at least.

Moriarty was finally gone.

John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Sheri were safe.

That thought brought comfort to Sherlock as he waited for the darkness to take him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Ok, not much going on in this chapter. Basically Sherlock being conscious enough to finally reboot his hard drive and remember what is going on.

I feel for Sherlock here. Nothing is worse than waking up in an hospital and having to try to piece together how you ended up there in the first place. I can relate to that. But it's much worse for Sherlock, because now he knows that a lot has happened while he was in a coma.

Can you imagine how humilated Sherlock feels? Not only is he in a hospital (not his favorite place to be), but he has to deal with the knowledge that his daughter is telling _everyone_ what a great father he is. And Sherlock, who prides himself on being emotionally closed off and logical, is probably not to happy that Sheridan is sharing stories about how human he really is.

And then to find out that _Clarky_, of all people, is spreading tales too?

_How is he ever going to live this down!?_

Plus, to top it off, he has to deal with the guilt he feels about how he has hurt people by pretending to be dead. How will that affect him later on? We will find out in the next few chapters.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." However, I have officially given up my quest to break Chase of his coffee fetish. It's just not worth it!

By the way, the following is in no way meant to make light of depression, suicide, or addiction issues. They are very serious, and I do not demean or judge anyone who has or is presently suffering from these afflictions. However, everytime Chase gets involved, he manages to wreck my life. So please read this as it is meant to be read.

(Roughly translated-Sometimes the events that go on in my imagination are worthy enough to have me committed, and thus should not be taken seriously!)

**Peaceful Defender**-_Chase!_ What are you _doing!?_

**OC Chase Douglas** (sniffs as he puts the noose around his neck)-I can't _live_ without my coffee! _My life has no meaning! I can't concentrate on my programing! I am falling asleep at the keyboard!_

**Peaceful Defender**-So you have decided to tie one end of a rope around your neck, and the other end to the back of my car!?

**OC Chase Douglas**-Well, you have to go to court soon! I figured you could drag me along!

**Peaceful Defender**-_And what!?_ Like no one is going to notice I am dragging a dead fictional character behind me? Isn't it bad enough that the cops try to pull me over as it is because I drive like one of the Cullens from the "Twilight Series?" Now you want me to be convicted of _reckless homicide!?_ Surely coffee isn't _that_ important!

**OC Chase Douglas**-BUT I CAN'T _WRITE_ ANYMORE! I HAVE WRITER'S BLOCK! WITHOUT FAN FICTION, I AM..._NOTHING!_

**Peaceful Defender**-_Oh, crap!_ Chase, I suffer from writer's block too! So does everyone who has ever written for Fan Fiction! But I seriously doubt anyone has tried to end their life over it! They just deal with it until they get inspiration again! It's no big deal!

**OC Clarky** (walks up)-Hey, what's going on? (looks at the rope with Peaceful Defender's car parked at one end and Chase's neck in the noose on the other) _Okay_...is this another intervention? Or did Lucky's creepy government brother leave him here?

**Peaceful Defender** (shakes her head in despair)-_No!_ Chase is trying to kill himself by tying himself to my car and wait until I drive! With him being drug behind me!

**OC Clarky**-_Ouch!_ Road burn! Not a good way to die!

**OC Chase Douglas**-BUT I WANT MY COFFEE!

**OC Clarky**-Okay, okay! Settle down, son! Look, from what I understand, the problem isn't the fact that you drink coffee! The problem is that that by the third cup, you are singing show tunes! Am I right?

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, he also sings songs from TV series, classics, rock-and-roll, romantic songs, pop, soul, country, and even a few rap songs every now and then!

**OC Clarky**-_Okay_...well, why don't you just limit your caffeine intake? Say...to two cups a day? See how well that works out! Maybe they have some caffeine pills you can take to take the edge off! I don't know! But I got rid of some of my guns, and I'm okay! But at least be willing to try it!

**Peaceful Defender**-Yeah, come on, Chase! I need to get to work!

**OC Chase Douglas** (cried pitifully)-I'm _sorry!_ I just went for seventy-two hours. Without _any_ caffeine! I am so _weak!_ I am a _horrible person!_

**OC Clarky**-Naw! You're just having a down moment! Come with me. If you do, we'll go to Peaceful Defender's kitchen and make you a nice, warm cup of coffee!

**OC Chase Douglas**-_COFFEE!_ (runs off in a full sprint back to Peaceful Defender's house.)

**Peaceful Defender**-CHASE! WAIT A MOMENT!

(Chase ignores Peaceful Defender. He runs so fast and so hard that he ends up tearing the bumper off Peaceful Defender's car. OC Clarky and Peaceful Defender watch in disbelief as the bumper is being drug behind Chase, who has forgotten that he was tied up to it in the fist place.)

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, _there_ went my bumper! How am I going to explain this to insurance?

**OC Clarky**-Uh...maybe you should just ask Lucky's creepy government brother to get it fixed. Heck, maybe he will cancel court for you today by declaring a war, so you won't get into trouble for being late!

**Peaceful Defender**-Let's not go that far on account of my car! _UGH!_ Now _I'm_ depressed!

**OC Clarky**-Why don't you go ahead and read some reviews on your story! You might feel better!

**Peaceful Defender**-Yeah, I guess so! I about as addicted to making the people who follow my story happy as Chase is to caffeine! (continues to watch as bumper is drug across the driveway as Chase nears Peaceful Defender's house) Well, maybe not that addicted, but _close!_


	35. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty Four: Stubborn**

"Stubborn and ardent clinging to one's opinion is the best proof of stupidity." Michel de Montaigne

* * *

_November 23__rd__. Eighteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

Despite the fact that Sherlock had emerged from the coma with his intelligence still intact, there was no doubt to anyone that he didn't get through the ordeal unscathed.

The various infections that continued to plague him kept Sherlock from receiving any visitors other than John and Mycroft, and the fluctuations in his body temperature continued, although it was nowhere near as bad as it once was.

Still, it was bad enough for Sherlock, who would be sweating profusely one hour and then be shivering under mounds of hospital blankets the next hour.

But the nightmares were the worst.

Sometimes, Sherlock had a difficult time believing that Moriarty was really gone, and he sometimes woke up from unspeakable nightmares, convinced that Moriarty was still alive and was planning to revenge himself on Sherlock by going after the people he worked so hard to protect.

At other times, Sherlock seemed to have forgotten the events of the past year, and would wake up in a state of confusion and panic before he remembered that his name had in fact been cleared, and he had nothing to fear from the local authorities anymore.

There were also a few memories that seemed permanently erased from Sherlock's hard drive. In particular, he was surprised that John somehow had his dog tags back, as he deduced that he had somehow lost them during his confrontation with Moriarty, and he had felt guilty for losing them in the first place. After John explained that he had gotten them back from Claudette Bruhl, Sherlock tried to remember if he had deliberately left them with Claudette, or if he had forgotten about them entirely in his haste to confront Moriarty.

As the presence of the dog tags would have almost certainly have gotten John involved in an investigation into the attempted kidnapping, Sherlock was inclined to think that he had simply forgotten about them in the chaos that occurred outside the hotel.

The fact that he, _Sherlock Holmes_, would forget something like that was bad enough. But his inability to recall, in exact detail, what he was thinking about at the time was almost tramatic.

There were other things that were noticeable too, especially to John, who maintained his bedside vigil. Sometimes, Sherlock would start at the sound of his own name, as though it was unfamiliar to him. Also, the constant flowers and gifts that were being sent to him seemed to put him in a state of melancholy, so John did his best to put them out of Sherlock's range of vision.

Finally, Sherlock decided that sleep was not helping matters, so he informed the hospital staff (via text, courtesy of a small cell phone that Mycroft brought for him to use to communicate) to discontinue his pain medication.

This did not go down well with the Army doctor.

* * *

"Bloody hell, Mycroft! I _told_ you this would happen!" John muttered angrily.

Mycroft sat calmly in his chair as he watched John pace up and down the hall. "It has only been a few days since he woke up, John. These things take time."

"Mycroft, just _shut it_, ok? You run the government, and I deal with people's health! I think I am a little more qualified than you in this area. If I need to bomb a third-world country, I'll consult you!"

"There is no need for hostility, Doctor. I know my brother's condition is deteriorating, as the result of his stubbornness, _again_." Mycroft pointed out. "I may not have always been at his bedside like you are, watching him whither and thrash around. But that doesn't mean I don't see it." Mycroft finished, his voice edged in steel.

John looked back at Mycroft, his face softening. "I know you see it, Mycroft. Hell, I bet you have the entire room under video surveillance." John paused in front of Mycroft. "I know you care for Sherlock."

"Then we are in agreement something must be done before Sherlock tears himself apart mentally."

John glared at Mycroft. "That Dr. Morrison that you brought up reminds me so much of my former psychiatrist. Neither one of them have the sense that God granted to a grasshopper's behind!"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "That is a methaphoric phrase that I have never heard before!"

"I can't take credit for it. I heard Clarky say it once." John confessed, blushing slightly. "But that's not the point. I know Dr. Morrison is good. I know he has a degree in psychiatry and specializes with patients who suffer through a personal trauma. But if you agree to his suggestion, then I can guarantee you that Sherlock won't get better any time soon!"

"And what would you have me do, Doctor? Only this morning, Sherlock has instructed the hospital staff to discontinue the pain medication. He is also refusing to sleep."

"Can you blame the man?! Every time he does, he wakes up shaking from nightmares! And now Dr. Morrison wants you to send him to a facility to 'get help' in dealing with his experiences!" John said, looking thoroughly disgusted. "Why don't we just take Sherlock outside now and push him off the roof again? Put him out of his misery faster!"

Mycroft rose angrily from his chair. "_How dare you…_"

"You know what I mean, Mycroft!" John shot back. "I care about Sherlock too! He's like a brother to me! I want Sherlock to feel safe again. _And he doesn't!_ That's the problem!"

"Interesting." Mycroft said, slipping behind his mask once more. The anger he allowed to show through earlier receded. "Would you care to elaborate?"

John took a deep breath. "Look, I'm no psychiatrist. But I understand what it is like to go through a bad situation. Remember when you told me that I missed the adrenaline rush from the war?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Well, you're right. The only way I made it through Afghanstan was because I lived off the danger and the excitement. When I came home, I lost my identity as a soldier and a doctor. Your brother gave me that, and thus helped me reclaim my life. Well, the way I see it, Sherlock is going through the same thing. Can you imagine being cut off from your own life, Mycroft? _I _can't."

"And what exactly do you want me to do, John?" Mycroft said mildly.

John took a deep breath. "I can't believe I am saying this, after spending so much time in the past trying to convince Sherlock to stay in the hospital to recouperate!"

John paused for a moment as he thought about what he wanted to say. "Look, I think, as Sherlock's doctor, that he would be more comfortable and would recover faster if he was back home. He's anxious, and I think it would be good for him to be in a place where he feels _remotely_ safe. He needs to _feel_ like Sherlock again. I'm a doctor, and I know what to do in something should happen. Also, it will be easier for you to secure one flat than it would be to secure an entire building where people enter and leave every day! We have been incredibly lucky that the press hasn't found out where he is yet. But if they do find out, then we are going to have a security nightmare on our hands."

"I see." Mycroft said. "Your idea certainly merits careful thought, Doctor. But what about Sherlock's doctors who urge that he remain in their care for the next two and a half weeks?"

"One, Sherlock will get bored and probably end up discharging himself in a few days anyway, regardless of whether he is fit to leave or not. Being at Bart's already has him stressed. And then he will end up right back in the emrgency room! You know how much Sherlock hates hospitals."

"Two, while the doctors have the best intentions, Sherlock is suffering mentally as well as physically. And being around a hospital, especially _Bart's_, of all places, is not helping him right now. However, moving him to another hospital isn't the answer either. I think Sherlock needs to be around his friends and come to terms with what happened."

"Three, I am also considering Sheri's emotional state right now. Remember that we are also dealing with a little girl who is tramatized about hospitals in general. She doesn't get much sleep, and it takes all of Ms. Hudson's and Mary's efforts to get her to eat anything!"

"You are certainly very persuasive in your reasoning, Doctor. Have you given this matter a lot of thought?" Mycroft inquired neutrally.

"Not really." John lied. "I'm merely stating the facts, Mycroft. Ignoring them won't make your brother get better."

Mycroft smiled thinly as he rose from his chair. "We needn't make a decision just yet, Doctor. However, I will take your recommendation under advisement. I will probably drop by later tonight, and we can discuss the matter further then." Mycroft replied.

"Just don't do anything without letting me know, Mycroft." John answered, his voice holding a slight warning.

"Very well. I need to make a couple of calls and see to a few matters. I will see you later on, John. Just watch over my brother until I return."

* * *

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_Forget it, John. I'm not going to sleep._

John glared at his friend after reading the text. "You haven't slept in, what, twenty-four hours?" John asked.

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_Twenty hours, twenty-four minutes, and seventeen seconds._

"_And_ you are going to pass out any moment!" John muttered angrily.

Sherlock looked up briefly at John, then silently sent another text to John's phone. As he was currently unable to communicate verbally, this was the best way for him to talk to John.

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_I won't pass out, John! I don't need pain medication. And I won't take them. It's my choice!_

"Sherlock, are you completely insane?!" John asked, feeling both shocked and outraged at his friend's obstinance. "You can barely move without pain as it is!"

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_They are going to push medication on me soon enough! Dr. Morrison will see to that! _

John's eyes widening in sudden understanding. "Is _that_ what you are worried about? That you are going to a private hospital?"

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_Oh, a 'private hospital.' Wonderful choice of euphimisms, John! _

John shook his head, debating the medical ethics if he chose to smother Sherlock with his pillow until he lost consciousness. He finally decided against it. "Well, just so you know, as your doctor, I advised Mycroft that such a move would be detrimental to you." John said. "I told him you would recover better back at the flat."

Sherlock looked up, his face hopeful. He typed a new message on his phone.

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_You did?_

"Yes, Sherlock. I did. I just hope Mycroft listens to me for once. I tried to convince him it would be in your best interests to be discharged as soon as possible." John remarked evenly. "Of course, you can't be discharged until you are well enough to leave, and this sleep deprivation is not going to help you get better any time soon!"

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_You don't understand, John! I need to stay awake!_

"Sherlock." John said softly. "You are talking to a man who has been haunted by nightmares about his wartime experiences." John left it unspoken that he also suffered terribly from lack of sleep after Sherlock's alleged suicide.

John watched Sherlock's face fall, looking like he had been slapped. He paused momentarily before he typed and sent the next text message.

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_I know you have suffered, John. And I regret that._

John froze. This was the closest they had gotten to breaching the topic concerning Sherlock's deception when he faked his death and gone after Moriarty's empire a year and a half prior. John wanted to wait till Sherlock was in a position to talk about it.

Now was _not_ the time.

He needed to get off this topic. "Look, Mycroft will be here soon. If he sees you like this, he's liable to listen to Dr. Morrison's advice."

Sherlock looked back at him, then glanced over at the table beside him, eyes lingering on the cup of water that John got for him.

John sighed in defeat. _Sherlock was changing the subject, which meant he wasn't going to budge on the matter. _

Reaching over to the table, John retrieved the cup of water and a straw. He held the cup while Sherlock took a sip.

Sherlock coughed after he finished the water, then made a face as he typed on the phone to send a new text message.

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_It's cold! And it tastes funny!_

John rolled his eyes in amusement. _No "thank you, John!" No "I appreciate you getting the water for me, John!"_

It _had_ to be a complaint!

"Sherlock, you have barely had anything to eat or drink in who-knows-how-long! Your taste buds are so rarely used it's a wonder you can taste anything at all! Just so you know, I got some ice from the ice maker down the hall and put in it earlier. And you're welcome, by the way!" John explained, setting the cup back down. "Aren't you going to even _try_ to rest a little before Mycroft gets here?"

Sherlock pouted and shook his head slowly.

John chuckled. Sherlock looked too much like a petulant child who refused to go to sleep at bedtime. "Keep telling yourself that, Sherlock! When you finally make yourself pass out, don't say I didn't tell you so! Now, if you will excuse me for five minutes, I am getting a cup of coffee. Can I get you anything? More water? Some common sense how to treat your transport and what its limitations are?"

Sherlock looked over at John, his eyes betraying some concern. Feebly, he typed another message.

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_Keep an eye on Mycroft! Don't let him give me anything!_

** "**_What?!_**" **John said after reading the text. "Why?"

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_Because Mycroft will try to come up with a way to drug me! He wants to try to outwit me, so he will try to drug me against my will. _

John looked back at Sherlock. "Aren't we being a _little_ paranoid?"

Sherlock shook his head in frustration, which caused him to start coughing suddenly. Gasping, he winced as each cough ripped through his ruptured throat.

"Here." John said, reaching for the water. "Drink this."

Sherlock took another, longer sip of water, then leaned back against the pillow, exhausted.

"I think the pain is making you delusional!" John said, annoyed. The idea that Sherlock believed that his brother was somewhere plotting on ways to trick him into taking pain medication was ridiculous. "If you tell that to Mycroft, I can _guarantee_ that you won't be going home anytime soon. You are losing it, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared up at John, then typed another text.

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_Mycroft's devious, John. He'll drug you the second your back is turned!_

John wanted to laugh. He _really_ did. But Sherlock's warnings made him slightly apprehensive.

After all, didn't Mycroft have _him_ drugged a few weeks ago?

Of course, admitting that to Sherlock was not going to help matters.

Sherlock glanced at John, a slight smirk set on his features. Smugly, he typed a new text message.

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_So he did it to you already! When was this?_

"I have no idea what you are talking about!" John grumbled.

Sherlock shook his head and sent another text.

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_You're lying, John! You are shifting your weight from one side to the other, and you are subconsciously hiding your hands in your trouser pockets. You only do that when you are trying to hide something. Thus, I deduce that Mycroft probably drugged you at some point, and you don't want to tell me about it!_

John growled as he read the text message. "_Fine!_ You're evil brother had Not-Anthea drug my coffee! Are you happy?"

Sherlock nodded, his slightly glazed eyes lit up in merriment. For some odd reason, he looked a little giddy, and in less pain than he was in earlier.

John shook his head in annoyance. "Glad to see you laughing at my expense! Now, stay here until I get back! If you move a millimeter from your bed, I'll put you out myself! Do we _understand_ one another, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice echoing the commands he gave out during his tours to Afghanistan.

Not that he wanted to be harsh, of course. But knowing Sherlock, he would probably try to crawl on his hands and knees if it meant escape from the hospital, and John knew that from past experiences.

Sherlock sighed in defeat as he typed his next text.

**To: John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Topic: No!**

_I'm not planning on going anywhere anytime soon, John. Go ahead and get your coffee. I'll stay awake until you return._

* * *

Five minutes later, John was pacing the hallway and muttering under his breath. Only four days back in the land of the living, and John felt ready to beat some sense into Sherlock, if he wasn't so afraid that his friend was too fragile at the moment.

_Mycroft should be arriving soon_, John reflected.

Hopefully _he_ can make Sherlock see sense and rest before he had a complete mental breakdown. Maybe they could even threaten him enough to where he would stop this pointless strike concerning his pain medication.

He knew Sherlock really wanted to go home. Bloody hell, _he_ wanted to go home too! But Sherlock needed constant care, and they didn't have the medical equipment set up at the flat.

Sherlock didn't seem to pay any heed to these arguments. Not only was he in a _hospital_, of all places, but he was at _Bart's!_ Wasn't it bad enough for him to be held hostage only a few miles away from home? Did it _have_ to be at the place where he jumped to his "death" too?

John couldn't help but sympathize with Sherlock's plight. Bloody hell, he didn't like Bart's either!

And as for the lack of medical equipment, surely the British Government could take care of that, right?

John only hoped that Mycroft would agree to keep Sherlock here for a few more days and then allow him to recover at home instead of sending him to another hospital or treatment facility.

Because Baker Street was where Sherlock needed to be.

John told the truth earlier when he spoke to Mycroft. Sherlock needed to come home, for all the reasons John laid out to Mycroft.

But there was another reason as well. A reason John could never admit aloud.

_He _needed Sherlock to come home.

Somehow, although he wasn't sure how, exactly, just having Sherlock back at 221 B Baker Street would make it more _real_ for John. That his friend was still alive. Sometimes he woke up at night and needed to look over at Sherlock to assure himself that he was not dreaming, that his friend was still living.

Then maybe they could _all _truly heal from the wounds of the last eighteen months.

He only hoped that Mycroft would see it his way.

His head started hurting slightly, and he messaged his temples in an attempt to alleviate the pain. He was getting a stress headache. _Although it was no wonder, considering he had been arguing with two Holmes all day!_

He should probably get a medal.

He cautiously opened the door to Sherlock's private room and looked inside. "I'm back, Sherlock."

The room was completely silent. Sherlock didn't raise his hand to greet him, like he normally did when John stepped out of the room for a few minutes. Instead, he seemed to have buried himself under the blankets again.

_Odd. Was Sherlock sulking? _

_Or did he finally pass out from the pain?_

Quietly, John walked over to Sherlock's bedside. Sure enough, Sherlock had managed to twist the sheets around him again, so that only his head and his mass of unruly locks were visible. His friend's eyes were closed, and he was breathing evenly.

John smirked as he saw that Sherlock finally succumbed to his exhaustion and was getting some much-needed rest.

_So much for his promise to stay awake! I knew he wouldn't be able to fight it much longer! _

He _had_ hoped that Sherlock would remain awake until they could talk Mycroft into letting him go home to finish healing there, but in light of Sherlock's paranoia earlier when he thought Mycroft was plotting on ways to drug him senseless, it was probably not a good idea.

Sherlock would just convince Mycroft that he needed to be on psychiatric medication.

Earlier, John felt agitation towards Sherlock and was afraid he would lose it and say something he would regret. This stupid refusal to sleep or take pain medication almost made the doctor want to run out of the hospital screaming.

_Didn't Sherlock see how much pain he caused John every time he didn't take care of himself?_

But, then again, if Sherlock's nightmares were even half as bad as John's had been, then maybe he had a good reason for not wanting to go to sleep.

Smiling to himself, John reached over and pushed a strand of hair away from Sherlock's face. While he did that, his fingers brushed against Sherlock skin.

It was cool. A far cry from the slight flush Sherlock had earlier.

John stopped. _Surely not._ Frowning, John gently reached over and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up."

_Nothing. _

_No response whatsoever. _

For some reason, alarm bells went off in John's head. Maybe it was because of what Sherlock had said earlier. Or maybe because he himself was a victim of Mycroft's drugging attempts.

And didn't Sherlock seem slightly off, earlier, when he was teasing John? Didn't he seem more relaxed and in less pain?

_But surely he was not serious!_

_Or was he?_

As carefully as he could, John reached over and pulled back one of Sherlock's eyelids. The lights were on overhead, bathing the room in a bright florescent glow.

Sherlock's pupil had shrunken to the point where it was almost non-existant. Given the light in the room, they should have dialated the moment they came into contact with the light. So something was definitely interfering with Sherlock's normal ocular functions. He still didn't respond to anything going on around him.

There was no doubt about it.

Sherlock had been drugged.

* * *

"Ah, John! Good evening. I do hope Sherlock is feeling better than he was earlier."

John whirled around to see Mycroft at the entrance into Sherlock's room. The government official was wearing a heavy, expensive black coat to dispel the chill from outside, and he was smiling broadly. He seemed unsurprised to find the Sherlock was asleep.

_Was it coincidence?_

John looked at Mycroft, studying his face. He recalled what Sherlock said earlier, and his suspicions grew. "Mycroft, _please_ tell me you didn't stoop this low!"

"Whatever do you mean, John?" Mycroft said innocently.

"Someone drugged Sherlock!" John said, his shock melting into irritation.

"But John, you are the only one who was in the room with Sherlock." Mycroft said as he settled himself into a chair. "None of my people have been in the room, I assure you."

"Then how…" John paused.

_Hold on a moment. Sherlock said that the water tasted funny earlier._

Frowning, John picked up the cup and opened the lid. He sniffed. Twice. Nothing smelled out of the oridinary. Cautiously, he brought the cup to his lips while watching Mycroft out of the corner of his eye.

"It would be unwise to do that, John, unless you feel the need for rest yourself." Mycroft said serenely.

John glared at Mycroft, livid. "Sherlock was _right?!_ You actually spend time trying to _poison_ him?!"

"John, please! I merely sought to save my brother from himself. You saw how much pain he was in. You yourself told him he was going to make himself ill and would only prolong his stay in the hospital." Mycroft said in a placating tone.

"YOU ARE INSANE!" John shouted.

This went far beyond the usual spying and interfering that Mycroft often engaged in! This was a serious invasion against Sherlock's wishes!

Even if Sherlock _was_ wrong!

Mycroft grinned. "Perhaps, Doctor. But I assure you my intentions are entirely honorable, despite Sherlock thinking that I only do it when I 'bear a grudge.'"

"You pompous arse!" John snapped. "What did you give him, anyway?"

"An experimental drug that works as a paralytic. It is to make him comfortable, you understand. Surely you remember how much it hurts to be shot?" Mycroft pointed out. "It's very painful, from what I've heard. Surely you don't expect me to sit by and watch my younger brother do that to himself, do you?"

John's witty rejoinder (which he had yet to think of) was interrupted by a knock on the door. Mycroft's assistant poked her head in. "Sir, I have what you requested."

"Thank you, Samantha." Mycroft said pleasantly.

"So it's 'Samantha' this week?" John asked sarcastically. As far as he was concerned, the young assistant would always be "Not-Anthea" to him.

"Yes, John." The woman said, giving him a polite nod. Stepping into the room, she glanced over at Sherlock as he slumbered away, oblivious to the fact that he was the object of scrutiny. She then handed Mycroft a small, dark object. "Shall I go get our team ready, Sir?"

"Yes. Tell them to enter here in exactly…" Mycroft paused as he glanced at his watch.  
"Seven minutes and twelve seconds."

"Yes, Sir." Not-Anthea (or Samantha, or whatever her chosen name was this week) replied respectfully before exiting the room, closing the door softly behind her.

"_Team?_ Mycroft, what the _bloody hell_ is going on?! I told you this morning that you were not to do anything without consulting me first!" John yelled.

On the bed, Sherlock stirred. John immediately reached over and began shaking him slightly in an attempt to rouse him. "Sherlock? _Sherlock!_ Wake up!"

"That is a rather fruitless effort, Doctor. The sedative will ensure that Sherlock will stay unconscious for another thirty minutes or so. It is a shame he had to receive it in a deluted form." Mycroft told John. "I had my people freeze the sedative into ice cubes and placed them in the ice maker down the hall. When they melted, they dispersed the sedative into the water. It was very thoughtful of you to get the ice for my brother, Doctor. I knew he would trust you in all matters concerning his health."

"_You sneaky, conniving, meddling, bastard! _ Don't you have anything better to do than to drug people?!" John whirled around and almost flew across the room to hit the government official in the face, but barely restrained himself.

"John, be reasonable for a moment and hear me out! We don't have much time. An hour ago, my team detained two reporters trying to sneak in to find my brother's room. They never got beyond the first floor, of course. But in light of the circumstances, Sherlock must be moved immediately." Mycroft explained.

"How do you know that? How did you know about the two reporters before you caught them, I mean?" John asked.

"I received a call from Detective Inspector Hopkins a few minutes prior to the reporters being detained. He received a tip from his friend, Ms. Hunter. I don't know _why_ she chose to alert us to that information, when she could have easily used it herself to get an exclusive. When I have time, I plan on asking her." Mycroft said.

John gaped for a moment. _Violet Hunter_ did this? _She_ alerted Mycroft to the fact that his brother's privacy was about to be compromised?

_Not that it surprised him, of course._

"I can answer that question for you, Mycroft. Partly, at least. Ms. Hunter was one of the first clients that Sherlock and I worked with."

"Mycroft nodded. "Yes. I am already aware of Ms. Hunter's prior acquaintance with my brother. But I am still at a loss as to why she chose to help preserve my brother's privacy, as she is a journalist."

John huffed. "Maybe because she is a decent human being, and she appreciates what your brother did for her. Maybe because she understands that Sherlock needs time to recouperate much more than the public need to get a story!"

"But enough for her to disregard a story that could help her further her career?" Mycroft persisted.

John shrugged. "You're thinking about Kitty Riley, aren't you? Well, maybe all journalists aren't bad people! Maybe Ms. Hunter remembers what Kitty Riley forgot! That our decisions affect people's lives!"

Mycroft causally studied the engravings on the handle of his umbrella, deliberately ignoring the implied reminder of his own poor decision-making when he discussed Sherlock's private life with Moriarty. "I suppose you are right. Still, I would like the chance to meet the young lady, and ask her myself."

John made a mental reminder to himself to call Ms. Hunter in advance, to warn her about any strange vehicles that may follow her around in the coming days. But now he had to focus on the present situation. "So, what? Are we re-locating Sherlock to another hospital?" John asked.

"No, Doctor. I have given it much consideration, and I am following _your_ advice. I am discharging my brother, and he shall finish recovering at his residence, like you suggested. I have already made the necessary arrangements, of course. Everything that you need is already prepared. All that remains is to transport Sherlock out of here without arousing suspicion."

John gaped at Mycroft, his anger slowly being leached away as he realized what Mycroft was saying. "You are letting Sherlock come home?"

"Yes, John. Because I believe that you are correct. Sherlock does need to be somewhere that conveys a semblance of normalcy…well, a sense of normalcy for _him_, at least." Mycroft replied mildly. "The only thing that remains to be done is to transfer him there, which would have been impossible if he was immobilized from pain."

"_Why didn't you just ask him?!_" John muttered impatiently. "I'm sure if you just explained…"

"Doctor, I would just have been wasting valuable time arguing! Sherlock would have demanded to stay alert during the transfer. You know it, and I know it! At least, this way, he would blame _me_ for the deception." Mycroft answered patiently.

John sighed as he conceded Mycroft's point. John would either have to watch Sherlock suffer as they moved him, or give him the sedative against his will and likely would have angered his flat mate.

"But what will we do when he wakes up? You said the sedative you gave him will only last for about thirty minutes. It will take longer than that to transfer him! And I seriously doubt he is going to drink any water anytime soon!" John pointed out.

"That is why Sherlock will be administered this." Mycroft said, holding up the dark object that Not-Anthea gave him earlier. Getting up out of his chair, he crossed over to John and opened the dark colored box. Inside were a syringe and a vial containing a clear liquid.

"My people are quite ingenious with their experiments sometimes. In this vial is a drug that will ensure that Sherlock will remain under for another twelve hours. It also works as a paraletic and thus will ensure that Sherlock will not experience any pain during the transfer. Our research shows that subjects injected with this drug are completely unaware about what is going on around them, both physically and mentally. Also, our research shows that the test subjects register only delta waves while they are under."

"Delta waves? So you are saying Sherlock won't be able to dream anything while he's out?" John said, realizing the implications of what Mycroft was saying. "That means Sherlock won't have any nightmares while he is unconscious."

"Correct, John. As I said, our researchers have proven quite useful, especially in this situation. We have used this drug for several years now, _transporting_ people and so on. However, due to the fact that it works too well, in that the people who are administered the drug are unable to wake up until after it wears off, it is hardly a safe drug to use on those who wish to use it as a means of getting a good night's sleep." Mycroft said, a slight hint of pride in his tone. "Not that is was made for that purpose in mind, of course."

"Yes. It was made so that you could spirit people away to parts unknown without them being aware of it!" John shot back angrily.

Mycroft ignored John's comment. "In a few minutes after the drug is administered, my team will move Sherlock out of the room and transport him to 221 B Baker Street. Everything has already been arranged, as I have said. Ms. Morstan and Mrs. Hudson are currently away from the flat, with my people, of course, doing some shopping, and are unaware of our plans just yet."

"What about Sheri?" John asked.

"My niece is spending the night at my country estate, helping Mr. Douglas and the rest of my people do a final security check on our software to make sure there are no more hidden security risks. Also, she is being kind enough to look into some potential threats to the Crown."

"You are _making_ her work for you!?" John asked incredulously.

For the first time since entering the room, a look of discomfort passed Mycroft's face. "Actually, Sheridan demanded that she be allowed to help. Partly as a distraction, and partly because she mistakenly believes that she owes a debt to me."

"_A debt!?"_ John asked.

Mycroft nodded. "If you recall, during our first meeting, she offered to work for the Crown for the rest of her life, in exchange for my help in finding Sherlock. So when she made this demand this morning, after I left you, I tried to reason with her, but she would not be persuaded otherwise. She said, and I quote her on this, that 'she was taught to always keep her promises.' Of course, she managed to get her way. She is extremely stubborn, just like her father."

"I say it is a Holmes family trait!" John observed.

Mycroft did not see fit to answer John's jib. "She left this afternoon, and should return to the flat sometime tomorrow."

"But why didn't you tell her that you were bringing Sherlock home?" John asked. "I'm sure Sheri would want to be there!"

"Because I did not make the decision to discharge Sherlock until after the reporters were found, John! If they were able to get in, then anyone may be able to, as Sherlock's location is now being circulated by the media. And did you not say earlier that it was far easier to secure one flat than it was to secure an entire building?" Mycroft reasoned. "Mummy has been apprised of the change of the situation, and she will be there to speak to Sheridan and explain everything to her before Sheridan learns about it through the unofficial channels."

"So your mother has returned to the safe house?" John asked.

"_John!"_ Mycroft said irritably. "She has never left it! The journey she took to, as I have already warned her, has affected her health again, and thus she has been unable to travel here to see Sherlock!"

John grimaced as he recalled what Ophelia had told him earlier. "_Oh_. I didn't know..."

"Mummy will be fine, John. There are simply times where her health fails her, and this is one of them. So it will do her good to spend time with Sheridan, just as it will do Sheridan some good to become better acquaintanted with her paternal grandmother."

"Well, why didn't you let _me_ know what was going on?" John asked.

"Because if you knew, then Sherlock would have deduced what I was planning and would have tried to leave the hospital on his own, just to spite me. Which, of course, would have seriously jeopardized his health." Mycroft explained, lapsing back into his pompose persona.

"So this is nothing more than two brothers who keep trying to outwit each other for the sake of seeing who is the smarter of the two? A damned case of sibling rivalry?" John asked, his irritation flaring up again.

"Oh, now really, Doctor! I already know _I_ am the more intelligent Holmes. Anyone suggesting otherwise is sadly misinformed." Mycroft smirked.

"As I recall, it was _Sherlock_ who took down Moriarty! _Not you!_" John retorted.

Mycroft grinned humorlessly. "_Touche_, John. But enough of this unpleasantness. Would you care for a ride back to Baker Street so you can be there for Sherlock's arrival?"

John paused, looking down at Sherlock, still sleeping and unaware of everything going on around him. The pain he was experiencing earlier was completely absent, and his face appeared more peaceful than John had ever seen it. "Thank you, but no. If I may, I would prefer to stay with Sherlock. Make sure he gets home ok." John's voice hitched slightly at the word "home."

"Very well. I will inform my team. I'll be in touch, Doctor. Please call me if you need anything." And with that, Mycroft swept out of the room, exiting as quietly as he entered.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Wow! Mycroft is a devious little bastard, isn't he? His answer for everything is to either bribe or intimidate people to get what he wants. And if that doesn't work? Then he forces them to anyway!

Seriously, what is wrong with the Holmes brothers? Forget the petty squabblings of siblings (in which I am very guilty of, having a younger sister growing up). Instead of swipping each other's toys, or bickering like normal siblings do, they go out of their way to try to outwit each other!

Does anyone else here battle their siblings by drugging them, stealing their security card, pay people to spy on them, or blow up their cars? _Anyone?_

Having said that, I _do_ see Mycroft's point of view (a little bit, anyway). I would hate to watch my younger sister go through pain that she was causing to herself and not do anything to stop it. Even if it meant incurring her wrath later!

Also, I think there is a tiny part of Mycroft that is still a little ticked off at Sherlock because Sherlock didn't communicate that he had faked his death. Even worse, he took out Moriarty's empire with Mycroft's assistance. And I think that Mycroft, being the elder Holmes and having a power complex, feels the need to teach Sherlock a lesson.

Alas, Mycroft! There _will_ be consequences for your actions! Be warned!

In the meantime, I am posting _two_ chapters today, because you guys are great, and I won't leave Sherlock drugged like this! So extra chapter and digital cookies for all!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own "Sherlock."

And _Clarky?_

_Well..._

Let's just say that two people from Tennessee can find interesting ways to amuse themselves when they are bored!

**Peaceful Defender**-_Clarky?_ What are you doing here? Did Chase make Mycroft angry again or something? I mean, it wasn't _that_ expensive to replace my bumper!

**OC Clarky** (looking up from his laptop)-_Naw!_ Although I _am_ here as a favor to Lucky's creepy brother! I'm in charge of an experiment!

**Peaceful Defender**-_WHAT?!_ No! Forget it! No _dead bodies_ on my property!

**OC Clarky**-Oh, not _that_ type of experiment! But seriously, I miss Lucky! I hope he gets better soon. I want to run an experiment to see what happens to eye balls if you leave them in a microwave!

**Peaceful Defender**-I think Sherlock already did that one!

**OC Clarky**-No kidding? Well, I also want to see if the decomposition of flesh is affected if you cover them in food preserves...

**Peaceful Defender**-_Too late!_ I think Sherlock did that once too! By putting some fingers in a jar of jam!

**OC Clarky**-_Okay_...well, what about the melting ratio of hydrocloric acid on a fresh corpse verses one that has been dead for years?

**Peaceful Defender** (thinking)-I don't think he has done that one yet!

**OC Clarky**-_Great! _ I'll tell Molly to be on the look-out for the specimens we need!

(a loud crash is heard from another room)

**Peaceful Defender**-WHAT WAS THAT!?

**OC Clarky**-_That?_ Oh, that is Moran! I locked him in that room where you have that gun safe hidden. I hope you don't mind!

**Peaceful Defender**-_Mind!? _ Clarky, you locked a _sniper_ in a room with _weapons_ in it!

**OC Clarky**-Yep! Remember how he pistol whipped me earlier?

**Peaceful Defender**-Yeah..._so?_

**OC Clarky**-And do you remember how you said you were going to teach him to stop pointing weapons at people?

**Peaceful Defender**-I forgot! Can you refresh my memory?

**OC Clarky** (smirking)-You said that you were going to put a collar on him, so that every time he reached for a gun, you would shock him! Well, Lucky's brother thought it was a good idea, so I'm testing it out!

**Peaceful Defender**-So, you are _electrocuting_ a man every time he reaches for a firearm?

**OC Clarky**-I prefer to think of it as "positive motivation!"

**Peaceful Defender**-More like "positively _charged_ motivation!" How long have you had him in there anyway?

**OC Clarky** (shrugs)-A few hours.

**Peaceful Defender**-And how many times have you shocked him?

**OC Clarky**-Only when he reaches for a gun. So, maybe about fifty times! I actually lost count, but I'm keeping him monitored with my laptop here. Oh,_ there_ he goes again! (casually reaches for a remote and pushes a button)

(Moran screams and curses in the background).

**Peaceful Defender**-So you are going to do that for _how_ long, exactly?

**OC Clarky**-Until he learns that pointing a gun is not an answer for everything. That's all!

**Peaceful Defender**-But Clarky! You carry guns too!

**OC Clarky**-I may have guns, but only to protect myself and my friends with them! I don't use them except as a last resort! I don't use them to threaten people with, or to make someone jump off a roof to save someone they care about!

**Sebastian Moran** (Yelling from back room) TOO BAD YOU CAN'T USE YOUR GUN TO TEACH PEACEFUL DEFENDER TO STOP POSTING POINTLESS COMMENTARIES AND STICK TO THE F****** STORY!

**Peaceful Defender** (frowns)-Can I borrow that remote? (Clarky wordlessly hands it to her) Thank you! (pushes button).

(Moran screams as he is being shocked again)

**Sebastian Moran** (yelling from back room)-I DIDN'T TOUCH A GUN THIS TIME!

**Peaceful Defender**-I know! _That_ was for using foul language! If you keep it up, then I'll shock you again!

**OC Clarky**-Hey, Moran! _New rule!_ No _guns_, no _cursing_, and no _insulting_ Peaceful Defender's story! Only the fan fiction writers are entitled to do that! So they can do that when they review, if they agree with you! And if _they_ think that Peaceful Defender is doing a half-decent job, this being her first story and all, then I will shock you again! _HAH!_

**Peaceful Defender**-You know, it is a shame that we, the people living in the southern area of the United States, are constantly marginalized. Personally, I think we are _very_ smart!

**OC Clarky**-True. _Sadistic_, yes! But smart as well!


	36. Chapter 35

**Chapter Thirty Five: Solutions**

"Each person deserves a day away in which no problems are confronted, no solutions searched for." Maya Angelou

* * *

The team that Mycroft had assembled turned out to consist of two medical technicians and two men in non-descript suits.

"Doctor Watson," asked one of the men wearing a suit.

"Yeah." John answered.

"Good evening, sir. My name is Mr. Hamlin. I am in charge of transporting Mr. Holmes out of the hospital and back to his place of residence. Am I correct to assume that it is also your place of residence as well?" The man asked curtly.

"Yes. It is." John answered.

"Very well. Our superior has instructed us to allow you to accompany us. However, if at any time we tell you to do something, you do it. No questions asked. It is for your own safety, and for the safety of all the members of my team and Mr. Holmes. Do we understand each other?" Mr. Hamlin spoke with a clipped, authoritative voice which encouraged no arguments.

"Yes." John said wearily. He was tired, and wanted to get Sherlock away from this madness as soon as possible.

"Very good." Mr. Hamlin said.

One of the technicians picked up the case off the table where Mycroft left it earlier. Taking out the syringe and the vial, he prepared an injection and skillfully injected the drug into Sherlock's right arm. Sherlock gave a soft sigh after the drug began to flow into his blood stream, then became still again.

Non-pertrude, the technicians began to unhook the tubes and moniters from Sherlock's body.

"Is there anything in the room that belongs to Mr. Holmes or yourself?" Mr. Hamlin asked John, who stood away while the technicians worked but couldn't help but to watch anxiously.

"Uh, no." John replied, looking around. "My phone is in my pocket, and I didn't bring any other clothes with me. The flowers and the get-well gifts belong to Sherlock, but that's about it."

"Very good. We will take care of it." Mr. Hamlin noted. Silently, they watched the technicians finishing unhooking the last of the medical equipment and throw back the blankets.

Even after fifteen days, Sherlock still didn't look much better than when he arrived. The pajamas he was wearing could not disguise the fact that he was woefully thin, almost skeletal in appearance. Bulges under his clothes showed the locations of the bandages covering his chest and arms. One of the technicians gave a nod to the man nearest to the door, who opened it, allowing a third technician in, who was pushing a gurney in front of him.

Despite the fact that Sherlock could no longer feel any pain, John held his breath anxiously when the three technicians transferred Sherlock's body from the hospital bed to the gurney. Then one of them put an air mask over Sherlock's face and attached it to an oxygen tank that was much smaller than the normal, standardize air tanks that hospitals often use.

"We can't take Mr. Holmes through the traditional exits, because they are all being watched, so we are using an _untraditional_ exit." Explained one technician, a youthful man with an open face and a kind expression, when he saw John looking over at them curiously. "We are going to wheel him down to the morgue in the basement. If anyone sees us, they will just see three technicians taking a body downstairs. The air mask is just a precaution to ensure that Mr. Holmes is able to breathe normally until we get him transported to the car."

"I see." John said, nodding gratefully at the technician for explaining what they were doing. Had they just threw a blanket over Sherlock's head, John would have been distressed and probably would have protested and thus caused a scene.

"When we get down there, our mode of transportation will be ready. Before you get upset, please know in advance that we will be traveling in a hearse." The kindly technician replied as he checked the readings on the oxygen tank.

"_A hearse?!_" John gaped, then turned toward Hamlin. "Is this Mycroft's idea of a joke?"

"Hardly, Doctor." Hamlin replied in a clipped voice. "There are a few media vans outside, and several reporters lying in wait at various exits throughout the hospital. We need to get past them without anyone stopping us. And no one would _dare_ to approach a hearse when it is transporting a body to the cemetery." Hamlin explained.

"But don't worry, Doctor Watson. _We_ have no intention of dropping Mr. Holmes off at the cemetery!" The talkative technician said, the corners of his mouth slightly raised as he fought off a knowing smile.

"Thank God for that!" John said as he watched the blanket being thrown over Sherlock's face, obscuring his face from view. "I have had enough of cemeteries and burials and death to last me a lifetime!"

"We were briefed on the situation, Doctor. And I apologize if our methods seem a little extreme, but I assure you that we are doing it with Mr. Holmes's safety as our main priority." The technician replied softly.

"Once we get a few blocks away, we will move Mr. Holmes to another vehicle, and then continue the rest of the way to Baker Street." Hamlin explained.

* * *

Operation "Moving Sherlock" went off without a hitch. In less than ten minutes, John was riding in the back of the hearse alongside his friend, occasionally checking his vital signs and making sure he appeared comfortable. And as predicted, even though there were scores of reporters around, no one dared to approach the hearse.

Mycroft's team pulled into a building a few blocks away from the hospital, in order to change vehicles. As Hamlin correctly pointed out, it would have looked strange if a hearse suddenly appeared in front of 221 Baker Street.

The new vehicle turned out to be a van with the logo "Webber's Moving Service" painted in bright letters on the side. Hamlin explained that several men, disguised as movers, where going to carry Sherlock into the flat.

"Don't you think people are going to be a _little_ suspicious that several men are going to be carrying in a body?" John had asked incredulously. "I mean, we _do_ have some neighbors."

"If anyone looks, they won't _see_ a body!" Mr. Hamlin stated flatly.

And now, thirty minutes after they left the hospital, Sherlock Holmes was carried into the entrance of 221 Baker Street, rolled up in a rug.

John was secretly glad that Mary and Mrs. Hudson were not present. He could just imagine what they would say if they knew that Sherlock was drugged and transported in the manner that he was.

Mary, who admired Sherlock's abilities (and that was _before_ he saved her life), probably would call her former rugby students and have them chase down Mycroft.

And Mrs. Hudson? John didn't think even _Mummy_ could save Mycroft once their esteemed landlady found out how "her boy" was treated!

The men carrying Sherlock ascended up the stairs first. John tried to follow them up, but was delayed by Hamlin, who wanted to go over the code words that John was to use, even though they had already went over them a dozen times on the way back to the flat.

Somehow managing to keep his impatience in check, John briefly recited the words he was expected to use over the phone in case there was a kidnapper, an assassin, or a reporter in the flat. John thought the entire thing was silly, but Hamlin reminded him that if someone had a gun trained to his head, he wouldn't be able to say the truth over the phone, so the code words were a necessary precaution.

Finally, Hamlin let John go, satisfied that the doctor knew what to do in case anyone made it past the security team set up to watch 221 B Baker Street. Relieved, John raced up the stairs, almost running over two of the men that had carried Sherlock upstairs a few moments before.

The flat's main room was empty. The rug that Mycroft's men used to transport Sherlock was now rolled out and spread on the floor. But there was no sign of Sherlock anywhere.

_They must have put Sherlock in his bedroom._ John thought. Crossing the room, he went down the hall until he reached Sherlock's bedroom and pushed open the door.

* * *

Mycroft had not been lying when he told John that he had "everything arranged."

Sherlock's room was miraculously clean (While Mrs. Hudson cleaned Sherlock's room weekly when everyone believed he was dead), her hip kept her from dusting some of the objects stored there. Mycroft's people, whoever they were, had managed to clean the eighteen months' long accumulation of hidden dirt and missed cobwebs, leaving the room in pristene condition.

Beside the nightstand was a small, state-of-the-art heart monitor, as well as an I.V. stand with a bag of saline already attached. Various wrappings and bottles were arranged neatly on the nearby bureau.

Sherlock was still unconscious and was being held in a sitting position by the talkative technician from earlier. John noted that Sherlock was bare from the waist up, and dressed in new pajama bottoms from the waist down. Another man, dressed in a cashmere sweater and slacks, had removed the bandages covering Sherlock's torso and was examining the wounds. When John entered, the man turned around and gave John a polite smile.

"Good evening, John."

John froze, his mouth hanging open. "_Matthew?_ What are you doing here?"

Dr. Anthuster smiled knowingly. "Let's just say that a certain mutual acquaintance of ours saw fit to interrupt my dinner so that I may make a house call." Dr. Anthuster chuckled. "Actually, Mycroft and I are on friendly terms with one another. He has been a patient of mine several times over the years. I also had the pleasure of meeting his younger brother once or twice, when Mycroft asked me to see to his brother when he got ill, long before you came. But never have I seen him so _quiet_."

"Apparently the Holmes brothers revel in the need to outwit one another." John replied before studying his employer. "So Mycroft probably paid you to employee me, am I right?"

"What? _Oh!_ No! Of course not, John!" Dr. Anthuster waived his hand dismissively. "I hired you for the reasons I have already explained. To tell you the truth, I wasn't entirely sure you were _the_ John Watson, and I didn't want to ask, in case it was something you did not want mentioned. I didn't get full confirmation of who you were until Mycroft came to see me, right after that tape aired last year, to make sure that I would not be concerned if you missed work for a few days." Anthuster explained.

"I see." John said guardedly.

Anthuster _seemed_ to be telling the truth. But when Mycroft was involved, one never knew.

"Pardon me for a moment, if you would, John. I am checking Mr. Holmes's injuries to make sure that the transfer here did not cause any of his wounds to open up." Dr. Anthuster said before turning his back to John and continued with his examination.

Cautiously, John edged forward and glanced over Dr. Anthuster's shoulder.

Now visible, Sherlock's ribs stuck out under his pallid skin. His entire chest was covered with molten bruises in various degrees of healing. Some had already lost their bluish twinge and were turning yellow. The jagged line of stitches showed where the surgeons had cut into Sherlock in order to extract the bullet from his side. The edges of the skin were still slightly pink, but the wound seemed to be healing well.

"Well, he seems to have made it in one piece, I think." Dr. Anthuster said, satisfied with the results of his examination. "I am glad you will be here with him, John. Personally, I would not allow Mr. Holmes out of a hospital for another month at least, given the number and severity of his injuries. But under the circumstances, I am told that this was necessary."

"I wish it wasn't, Matthew." John replied, not being able to tear his eyes off of his friend's injured body.

"Well, I need to re-bandage Mr. Holmes's wounds before I check the ones on his arms and his neck."

"Can I help?" John asked.

Dr. Anthuster hesitated for a second, and then shrugged. "I see no reason why not. David here will hold him up while we make quick work of this."

"So your name is David?" John addressed the technician who was so helpful earlier that night.

"Yes, sir." The technician said quietly. "David Billings."

_I'll need to remember that._ _Mycroft needs to hear from me what a good job he did in explaining what was going on so I didn't suffer an anxiety attack. _ John resolved.

Working quickly but expertly, John and Dr. Anthuster re-bandaged Sherlock's chest and side. David positioned himself behind Sherlock so that Dr. Anthuster could remove the bandaging from around Sherlock's throat.

"Good God!" Dr. Anthuster exclaimed, looking shocked at the deep, purple bruising and the healing cut. "So the rumors _are_ true. At least the press got something right! Well, now I see the urgency of moving him out of the hospital so quickly. Those vultures in the press will do just about _anything_ for a story."

John barked a humorless laugh. "Don't I know it! I had to deal with them a year and a half ago."

Silently, the three men checked the remaining injuries to Sherlock's arms (which John was happy to see were healing well) before they finished dressing Sherlock. Mr. Billings then carefully laid Sherlock out on the bed before he began to hook up the I.V. drip and the heart monitor. Dr. Anthuster took John to the other side of the room.

"Now, Mycroft left behind some medications for your use." Dr. Anthuster stated, nodding to the corner of the bedroom, where a mini-refrigerator was plugged up to the wall. "The ones that need to be kept refrigerated are in there. The rest on arranged on the bureau. If you need anything else, you are to call me, and I will arrange for it to be delivered here."

John nodded in agreement. "Can you prescribe any medication that will deal with nausea? Sherlock rarely eats, even in the best of times." John asked.

Anthuster smiled wirily. "I know. Remember, I had to deal with the man myself. After the last time, I sent a bill to Mycroft which included extra fees for _child care_." Anthuster laughed. "You have my deepest sympathies, John."

"Thank you, Matthew." John said politely. "I hope you don't mind if I take a few more weeks off?"

Dr. Anthuster laughed again. "Mycroft already arranged it, John. Consider this a paid vacation, if you can call it that! Take whatever time you need, and don't hesitate to call the office if you need something."

"Good-bye, Doctor Watson." David said. Having completed making sure everything was in working order, David finished by covering Sherlock with some blankets and the duvet. "Good luck with everything."

"Thank you, Mr. Billings. You have been very helpful tonight. I hope your employer is aware of that."

David smiled politely and followed Dr. Anthuster out the door.

John took a moment to collapse into the comfortable arm chair that was placed beside Sherlock's bed. It was not a piece of furniture that came from the flat, so he had to assume Mycroft had it brought up for his use.

As usual, the "minor government official" thought of everything.

Sherlock continued to sleep on. His face was remarkably relaxed, as though he was finally getting a restful respite, as opposed to the fever induced nightmares he had suffered from ever since he regained consciousness a few days ago.

Maybe it was the unidentified drug he was on. Or maybe he sub-consciously knew he was home.

John sighed. None of that mattered. What mattered is that Sherlock was finally safe, and John would make sure he stayed that way.

* * *

Several days past, and John found himself in a familiar role. Nursing Sherlock back to health.

Again!

It was easier in some ways. For one thing, Sherlock still couldn't speak yet, so John was spared the usual complaints he had to put up with whenever Sherlock made himself ill. Also, Sherlock was unusually passive around John, obeying his instructions without so much as an eye roll or an expression of disgruntlement.

It appeared that simply being back at 221 B Baker Street was enough for Sherlock at the moment. He wasn't happy, exactly, but he was content for the moment.

To say that Mrs. Hudson was pleased by Sherlock's return would be to tell a lie. Through gross underestimation.

In short, Mrs. Hudson was estatic.

The morning after Sherlock rather unorthodox trip from the hospital, Mrs. Hudson took the opportunity to take up some broth for Sherlock's breakfast as a means to have an excuse to talk to him.

The "talk," if one could call it such, lasted for over an hour, and consisted of Mrs. Hudson simultaneously berating Sherlock for causing her so much grief and crying as she hugged him. The conversation also consisted of Sherlock being fussed on for allowing himself to get hurt, for not eating properly, and for not telling her about "her" new grandchild.

It was a mark of how much Sherlock's patience had grown that he endured the molly-coddling silently and without any glares or eye-rolls before Mrs. Hudson finally left him in peace, but not before she threatened that she would throttle him with her broom if he ever pretended to be dead again.

John, for his part, was impressed by his flat-mate's unusual restraint.

Mary was also pleased that Sherlock was home. If she was a selfish person, then she was happy purely for the fact that Sherlock being home meant that John was home too.

But Mary was not a selfish person. Most of the time, it was she who brought up the meals to the two flatmates, in order to spare Mrs. Hudson from repeat trips up and down the stairs with her bad hip. And while John was occupied in watching over Sherlock, Mary helped to take up the slack by running errands, doing the laundry, and basically helping Mrs. Hudson with the management of the entire building without any hint of irritation or complaint.

Sherlock, for his part, seemed unusually alert whenever Mary was present. Although his expression was neutral, he kept a close eye on her, especially whenever she was with John. It was almost as if he was making it his mission to deduce her entire life story.

Sheridan, for her part, was thrilled that her father was home. Her appitite improved dramatically, and she practically bounced up and down the stairs to help Mary carry things back and forth to Sherlock's room. She was still restricted from spending too much time with her father, due mostly to the fact that Sherlock was still extremely weak, and any activity seemed to wear him out completely.

Still, as far as Sheridan was concerned, Sherlock was out of the hospital, which meant (in her eyes, at least) that he would recover. So it was hard to dampen her spirits.

John didn't say anything about it, but he noticed how Sherlock was slightly more content with Sheridan around. It was almost as though he was fearful that if she was out of his sight for too long, she would be kidnapped, or something would happen to her.

Of course, considering he spent the last year worrying that Moriarty would somehow find Sheridan, John could hardly blame Sherlock for his nervousness.

So he said nothing when, the day after Sheridan returned home from the safe house, he had woken up early to find that Sheridan had left her bedroom during the night and was curled up beside her father.

John didn't say anything about how surprised he was when he opened the door and saw Sheridan sleeping beside her father, their breathing in almost perfect harmony with one another, with her arms wrapped around him as though she was afraid that someone would steal him from her.

John didn't say anything as he admittedly gaped at the scene for a long time, with the morning sun filtering through the curtains, before he finally had the sense to get his phone and take a picture of this tender moment. After that, he left the pair alone and went to the kitchen to make himself some tea, to reflect on what he had witnessed.

He told himself that he was planning to use the picture to blackmail Sherlock later, or to show it to any Yarder who was stupid enough to ever accuse Sherlock of harming a child again.

But if he was being honest with himself, he took the picture so that he would be reminded of how much was lost, and then regained, in the past eighteen months. And it was something he never wanted to forget.

* * *

_November 26th, eighteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

Three days after Sherlock returned home, the first true sign that things were beginning to get back to normal occurred. It happened when John tried to give Sherlock some pills that he had been prescribed to help with the swelling in his throat. Instead of taking them automatically, as he had before, Sherlock scowled.

_"No!"_

John couldn't help it. After weeks of silence from his flat mate…

"You _spoke!_ You actually spoke!"

Sherlock glared up at him. "Well done, John! You may congradulate yourself, since your auditory skills are working splendidly!"

The insult was so very _Sherlock_ (despite the fact that his voice was much softer and a good deal more hoarse than usual) that John actually started laughing.

"_I can't believe it!_ The first words out of your mouth in almost three weeks, and the first thing you do is insult me! So I _know_ you must be getting better!"

Sherlock looked somewhat displeased by this pronouncement and turned away from John, suddenly acting as though he found the opposite wall more interesting.

"You know, for someone who just regained the ability to speak, you suddenly gotten very quiet! What's wrong?" John asked. He expected to rejoice with his friend, but Sherlock seemed oddly depressed by this clear sign that his health was returning.

"Nothing's wrong." Sherlock mumbled.

"Well, if nothing's wrong then, go ahead and take your pills, so I can get on to bed!" John teased. "I'm only here to make sure you take them, so hurry up!"

Sherlock, if anything, looked even sadder than before. But he obediently reached up and took the pills from John's outstretched hand before swallowing them and laying back down.

John caught the stricken look of Sherlock's face. "Hey, Sherlock, is something wrong?"

"No." Sherlock whispered. "I'm just tired. You go on to bed."

John lingered. _Something was off._ Just when Sherlock regained the ability to communicate verbally again, he shut down. It made no sense.

Or maybe, as Sherlock said, he was just tired.

Seeing that Sherlock would not talk anymore, John gave up and left, figuring that Sherlock was simply having a down moment.

He learned later just how wrong he was.

* * *

Later that night, John was sleeping on the couch in the sitting room, partly to guard the door, and partly to be there in case Sherlock needed him. At around one-thirty, he was awakened from his sleep by a gentle, insistent tapping on his shoulder.

His eyes snapped open to see the person standing before him, then relaxed when he saw who it was.

"Sheri?" John whispered.

Sheridan stood before him, her skin reflecting the light of the moon that filtered through the windows, her eyes troubled. She had her purple robe wrapped around her. "I'm sorry to disturb your rest, Uncle John, but I need your help."

John sat up and threw the duvet off of him. "Did you have another bad dream?"

For the last few weeks, poor Sheri had been suffering from nightmares that caused her to wake up screaming. She never told John or Mary what they were about, only that they had to do with "Dad."

Sheridan shook her head. "It's Dad! I came downstairs to get a glass of water, because I was thirsty. Then I heard a noise. It was from Dad's room. I heard Dad crying! And I think he got sick again!" She looked up earnestly at John's face.

John got up from the sofa and checked his phone. There were no text messages. "He didn't text me that he needed me."

Sheridan shook her head. "He probably doesn't want to disturb you. But I think he needs help. He sounds horrible! Do you want me to stay up and help you?"

John patted the girl affectionately on her shoulder. "No, no! I'll take care of it! You go back to sleep."

* * *

Sheridan's assessment proved to be correct. When John entered Sherlock's bedroom, he found the consulting detective hunched over the side of his bed, gagging and retching into a bucket that John had the foresight to place there for just such an event.

He had hoped they wouldn't have to use it, as Sherlock had managed to keep down everything he has swallowed since returning home. But now it seemed like it was finally being put to its intended use.

"Sherlock?" John whispered as he slowly entered the room.

Sherlock didn't even bother to acknowledge his presence, so John crouched down so that he could examine Sherlock and try to figure out what the problem was.

The consulting detective was drenched in sweat, and shaking. His hair hung down his face as he continued gasping and coughing. Instinctively, John reached over to place his hand over Sherlock's shoulder, half-expecting for Sherlock to glare at him and tell him he didn't need any help.

So when Sherlock made no resistance to the touch, John became _very_ worried.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you in pain?" John asked, gently wiping the hair away from Sherlock's face so that he could see his expression.

What he saw was a picture of abject human misery. Sherlock face was slack, but his eyes were wild and panicked, as though he had just been attacked. Frowning, John felt for Sherlock's pulse, noting that it was rather rapid. However, his temperature felt normal, suggesting that there was no new infection.

"Fine." Sherlock whispered. "Just…fine."

"Since when is throwing up _fine_, Sherlock? And why didn't you text me?" John muttered, exasperated.

"Can…handle it." Sherlock whispered. "Just, bad dream. _Nothing._ Go back to bed."

John nodded sympathetically. He understood nightmares. There were several times that he woke up and got sick, if they were particularly vivid. _At least it wasn't a return of the infection._ "Uh-huh." John said. "Right. Sure, ok. But since I'm here, I might as well get this sorted."

Without waiting for a response, John took the bucket away to wash it out. When he returned, Sherlock was still slumped on the mattress, exactly in the same position as he was earlier. His eyes were closed, but the slight hitch in his breath showed he was still awake.

Trying to be causal about it, John placed the bucket back beside the bed and retrieved the wet towel that he brought in to gently wipe the sweat from Sherlock's face, who remained limp, passively submitting to the doctor's ministrations. This accomplished, he went over to the small refrigerator and took out a syringe and a small bottle.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock whispered, opening his eyes slightly.

"I'm giving you something for nausea." John answer easily, approaching Sherlock, syringe in hand. Sherlock watched him as he inserted the needle into his I.V. line. "It will take a minute to take effect, so I'll stay with you until it does."

Sherlock frowned. "I can take care of myself."

John shrugged. "Then I'll keep you company."

"I don't need company, either." Sherlock grumbled wearily.

John huffed. "Oh, what are you so worried about? If you are afraid that your reputation as a high-functioning sociopath is damaged, then I have news for you. It's already ruined! I don't think _anybody_ believes that crap anymore!"

Sherlock shrugged. "People try to project what they want to see. It doesn't make a difference. I am incapable of feeling emotions, John. Ask anyone!"

"Really? Then explain why you were willing to jump off a roof to save three people, or why a little girl doesn't feel happy unless you are with her? Explain why she is so attached to you!"

"That's because I was the only constant in her life for a year, John." Sherlock responded. "Children naturally cling to things they are used to, whether it's good for them or not!"

"Oh, stop denying it, Sherlock! Sheri told me about how you took time out of your busy crime-fighting schedule to spend time with her, and how you walked several miles in the middle of a damn blizzard to get her antibiotics when she was sick! If _that_ isn't proof enough for you, then I don't know what is!" John retorted.

Sherlock sighed and suddenly found that looking at the ceiling was preferable than continuing this conversation. John studied him for a moment in silence.

"Aren't you going to share your great secret with me?" John finally prompted.

"What secret is that, John?" Sherlock asked listlessly.

"I may be slow compared to you, Sherlock, but I'm not an idiot. I have deduced long ago that you didn't have a particularly happy childhood, and your father probably wasn't there for you like he should have been. That is one reason why you are so anxious whenever anyone discusses Sheri around you. You are afraid you aren't doing a good job being a father to her. And don't tell me I'm wrong, either!"

"Fine. I won't tell you." Sherlock grumbled.

John smiled. "Just for your information, you _have_ done a very good job with her. Bloody hell, I don't know if I could have done better!"

"That was the idea." Sherlock whispered.

"_What?_" John asked, confused.

Sherlock looked back toward John. "You were correct, earlier. My experiences as a child left me woefully unprepared for fatherhood. Mycroft pretty much took on the task of raising me, but his methods were rather…_unorthodox_, and wouldn't have worked with Sheridan, who grew up being taught that emotions were a good thing to have. Perhaps I should have impressed upon her the liability of having emotions, but I felt a change so drastic from the teaching Sheridan had already learned from her mother would not be beneficial for her, given the situation and the danger we were in. Anyway, I didn't have a sappy, indulgent, attentive person to emulate. So I asked myself what _you_ would do in the situation, and tried to act accordingly."

John gaped. "Let me get this straight! Every time you had a question on how to deal with Sheri, you asked yourself '_What would John do?_'"

"As I said, John, I had a child on my hands and no one to ask for advice. The internet proved to be utterly useless in the situation. I didn't have many options!"

John smirked. "I don't know whether I should feel flattered that you think I am good father material or insulted that I am your idea of a '_sappy, indulgent, and attentive person_.'"

"What do you call hovering around like a protective 'Mother Hen' and looking at me like I'm weak and pitiful?" Sherlock snapped, eyes narrowed.

"Uh, because you _look_ weak and pitiful?" John quipped.

"Well, _stop it!_" Sherlock hissed. "I preferred you punching my face in to _this_!"

"Can you be a little more specific?" John asked.

"_Stop being so damn forgiving!_" Sherlock said fiercely. Had he been able to, he probably would have yelled out this statement. "I wish you would yell at me, punch me in the face, tell me how disgusted you are with me, how you plan to leave as soon as possible! _Anything_ but this!"

_So now we get to it._ John thought. "So you want me to _hate_ you, is that it?"

"Haven't you been paying attention, John? _I don't have any friends!_ Anyone who is _stupid_ enough to be a friend with me gets hurt! It's inevitable. I'm not _safe_ to be around!"

Fuming, Sherlock turned away on his side. It was the side that he was shot, and he could not help flinching at the pain that movement cost him. "Now I think you should just leave."

"Sherlock…"

"I said _leave!_" Sherlock snapped.

John froze where he stood. He could leave as Sherlock wanted him to. Give him time to calm down. Or he could stay and tried to reason with Sherlock, which might result in a shouting match.

To leave would have been the logical, sensible thing to do. It was what Sherlock wanted at the moment.

But John had just about enough of doing what Sherlock wanted!

_Who did he think he was, anyway? _ _The man waltzes into his life, becomes his best friend, and then fakes his death and leaves him to grieve, only to come waltzing back into his life. And now he was trying to play the martyr and telling John that he didn't want to be friends anymore because it was too dangerous?_

Well, John was tired of Sherlock making those decisions for him!

"_No!_" John said flatly, crossing his arms in front of him.

"No, what?" Sherlock muttered.

"_No_ as in the letter 'N' followed by the letter 'O.' Other terminology would be 'forget it,' 'nay,' 'negative,' or 'like hell!'" John said crossly. "I have had enough of this!"

"Enough of what?" Sherlock asked quietly. The anger in his voice that was present earlier was entirely gone.

"Enough of _this!_" John fumed as he stood over Sherlock's bedside. Defiantly, he practically fell into the arm chair and continued staring at his flatmate, who was still turned away from him. "I am _sick_ and _tired_ of you making all the decisions on what is good for me while I don't get any say! You did it when you decided to jump to save my life eighteen months ago, you did it when you decided to go after Moriarty all by yourself, which left you in a less-than-desirable state of health, and you are trying to do it now! _I have had it, Sherlock!_"

"If you had it, then why don't you go?" Sherlock whispered.

"_Because we are_ _friends_, _you stupid arse_! Get that through your head! For six months after your alleged death, I had to listen while people tried to convince me that you were a fraud! But never once did I believe it, even when _you_ told me so! And I was right! Before that, I had people telling me that I shouldn't be friends with you! Well, guess what? I don't see anyone else willing to jump off a rooftop to save me from a sniper's bullet! Do you?"

"You're twisting the facts, John. Had you not met me, you never would have had a gun pointed at you in the first place." Sherlock replied despondently.

"I know, because _I_ would have been the one to do it! Don't you _get _it, Sherlock? You saved my life when we first met. I was alone and depressed, and you changed all that! And now you are doing it again, trying to make decisions for me! Well, if you want me gone from your life, I'm not going to help you! I'm going to stay your friend, whether you like it or not!"

Scowling fiercely to get his point across, John gripped the arms of the chair. "If you want me gone, you are going to have to get Mycroft to send in his team of ninjas or agents or whatever to come in and _carry_ me out! So stop being so damned stubborn and accept it! I'm not going anywhere!"

The room was quiet for a few seconds. Neither man moved.

"You are too loyal for your own good, John." Sherlock finally whispered.

"Of course, maybe I'm wrong about everything. Maybe you regret jumping off of St. Bart's roof to save me in the first place." John wondered aloud, pretending to seriously ponder the matter.

"_Of all the idiotic things to come out of your mouth, John!_" Sherlock snapped, turning suddenly to glare at his flat mate. The effect was ruined by the pain the shot up and down Sherlock's body, and his glare never materialized. Whimpering, he settled back down on the pillows.

John fought back a knowing smirk. "Did we _forget_ something, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded. "No sudden movements unless I wanted to hurt more?"

John grinned. "_See!_ You do pay attention sometimes! Which means I'm right! _Again!_"

Sherlock didn't bother replying. He was too busy whimpering and sulking.

John chuckled. _Now was the time to show mercy to the vanquished._ "Well, now that everything's decided, I think you need another dose of morphine."

"I don't need your pity, John!" Sherlock grumbled, teeth clinched tightly together.

"Good." John retorted back. "Because I'm not doing this out of pity."

Sherlock watched wearily as John measured the dosage of morphine in a syringe and attached it to the IV drip. After a few moments, Sherlock's face relaxed somewhat as the throb on his side became a dull ache.

"So you're _not_ moving out?" He finally asked.

John frowned as he studied Sherlock, who looked at him as though his answer held the balance between life and death. "I have no current plans to. Oh, I will be moving in with Mary, at some point. After all, a husband and wife usually live together, or so I've been told! But we still plan to live in 221 C. So I'll just be downstairs!"

"You already discussed this with Ms. Morstan?"

John sighed. "Yes, I already discussed this with _Mary_, Sherlock! Everything we want is here. The flat is only a few blocks away from where we both work, and Mary gets along very well with Mrs. Hudson, and Sheri. So why wouldn't we stay?"

Sherlock turned (slowly, this time) to face the wall.

John took a moment to think back over the events of the day. This odd behavior from Sherlock was very preplexing. Sherlock became upset once he showed signs of getting better. It made absolutely no sense!

Sherlock _despised_ being sick! Why would he act like this now?

_Unless…_

"Is _that_ why you were so depressed earlier? Did you think I was going to leave once you got better? That I was only staying because you were injured?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock protested.

John studied him for a moment before he broke out into a grin. "You're lying! That's _exactly_ what you were thinking!"

Sherlock shook his head, but it was a weak protest, and they both knew it.

"I'm not planning to leave, you know. Now, I will move in with Mary, after we are married. But we plan on staying here." John said, trying to reassure his friend that things would not change so much. "And you are here, unless _you_ plan on moving out."

"Where else would I go?" Sherlock asked.

The question was probably meant to be rhetorical, but it contained some truth behind it. Where else would Sherlock live, if not at Baker Street? Where else would he find flatmates and a landlady willing to put up with him?

"Do you still want me to punch you in the face?" John teased.

"Not really, but I wouldn't stop you." Sherlock whispered as he burrowed a little deeper under the duvet.

"Like you could, right now!" John reminded him. "You can't sit up on your own, and you can barely feed yourself. You have about as much strength as a newborn kitten!"

"Thank you _so much_ for reminding me!" Sherlock grumbled, but his sarcasm was weakened, due to the morphine that was causing him to become more tired by the second.

John smirked. "Oh, and the whole 'pretending to be dead' thing? Just don't do it again, alright? I would like to see you stick around this time."

"I won't." Sherlock whispered weakly. "Death was extremely dull. I _hated_ it!"

The two men sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Finally, John chose to break the silence. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for not being dead."

"Like I had a choice in the matter." Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes. "I heard you telling me to live. In the…dark."

John frowned as he suddenly recalled that terrible moment back at Scotland Yard, when Sherlock's heart had stopped beating. "You _heard_ that?"

Sherlock nodded wearily. "You…called me back. Couldn't leave…you…behind. Not…again."

John watched as Sherlock's breathing even out as he drifted off, not sure how to handle this new revelation.

_Sherlock actually heard him? He came back, because John begged him to?_

_Did he really exert so much control over Sherlock's supposedly non-existent affections that Sherlock literally came back from the dead when he heard John's voice?_

_What did that mean, ultimately?_

"You… are thinking too loud again, John." Sherlock said, then yawned. "Go back…to bed. You're tired."

"Look who's talking!" John shot back.

Sherlock nodded absently, but didn't answer.

John watched him for several minutes, making sure he finally was asleep. Then, he went back to the living room and retrieved his own duvet and pillow.

Surely, he could sleep _one_ night in the armchair, just so Sherlock would see him in the morning and know that he meant what he said.

_Because he was not going anywhere._

* * *

**Author's Note: **Finally! Sherlock and John finally have their talk about what happened, and where their friendship progresses at this point onward.

Sorry if both characters seem a little OOC, with Sherlock being a bit emotional and illogical, while John is the voice of reason. I felt that John has had a lot of time to cope with the revelations of the past year, while Sherlock is just now trying to come to terms with it. I think that Sherlock, being Sherlock, probably got it in his head that John was only staying until Sherlock got better, and then he was planning to move out. This explains why he wasn't happy that he regained his ability to speak. In his mind, the sooner he got well, the sooner John would leave him.

I think this conversation was important for them to clear the air, with John doing something besides punching Sherlock in the face.

You have to love Mrs. Hudson! If landlady duties entails being a surrogate mother, then Mrs. Hudson is the definition of what a landlady should be! I love how one of her complaints to Sherlock is how he didn't tell her about "her" granddaughter!

And if the penalty for Sherlock is being beaten to death by a broom if he dares to fake his death again, then I wonder what she will do to Mycroft? (spoiler alert, anyone?)

Only four more chapters after this! What will I do with those four chapters? There is still many loose ends to take care of. So keep reading and find out!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own "Sherlock." And I am having my characters sanctioned and committed! I _mean_ it!

**Peaceful Defender**-Uh, Chase?

**OC Chase Douglas**-Yeah, Peaceful Defender!

**Peaceful Defender**-Why are Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, Hopkins, and Clarky all here, in my living room?

**OC Chase Douglas**-We are having a funeral service!

**Peaceful Defender** (gags)-You are _not_ going to bury Moriarty in my back yard!

**Stanley Hopkins** (smirking)-Like we would hold a funeral service for _him!_ Actually, we are here to pay our respects to Mycroft's Rolls Royce!

**Peaceful Defender**-Wait! (looks around) Is_ that_ why you are all standing around a burnt tire? And that is why Clarky is dressed up as a priest?

**Greg Lestrade**-(holds up video camera and points it at Clarky) _ Sush!_

**OC Clarky** (wearing a Catholic priest's robes and holding a Bible)-Fellow mourners, today we have come to pay our final respects to a 1985 Rolls-Royce Phantom VI, a true classic. As some of may or may not know, only three hundred and seventy-four cars were ever produced. So while losing an automobile is truly a tragic event, the loss of this car is all the more so, as it is unlikely that Mr. Holmes will ever be able to find an exact replica of the one he lost.

**Peaceful Defender** (nudging Chase)-Is he serious?

**OC Chase Douglas**-Sush! We are at a funeral! And yes, he is serious! I looked up the DMP's car on wikipedia! So you can see why this is so sad for us all!

**Peaceful Defender**-Then _where_ is Mycroft?

**OC Chase Douglas**-He couldn't make it! He said something about how he would rather start a nuclear war than attend! Poor DMP!

**OC Clarky**-Now, let us have a moment of silence, and may we pray that Mr. Holmes' car will find comfort in the fact that it was…ahem…_sacrificed_ for a good cause.

(Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Silvia Anderson, and Stanley Hopkins break out into muffled giggles. OC Chase Douglas looks on sadly. Peaceful Defender looks at everyone as though they are crazy.)

**OC Clarky** (still droning on seriously)-Does anyone have any words for the _dearly dismantled_?

**Stanley Hopkins** (takes a step forward)-I do! (clears throat) Now, I only had the pleasure of seeing the car once before it was…(cough) _detonated_…but I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we all will mourn the car's passing. _May it rest in pieces!_ (lowers head reverently).

(Sally Donovan, Greg Lestrade, and Silvia Anderson struggle desperately to keep from laughing out loud. OC Chase Douglas takes out a handkerchief and wipes his eyes. Peaceful Defender is debating whether or not now would be the best time to get a drink).

**OC Clarky** (still serious)-That was _beautiful_, Stanley! I don't think anyone could do better. Thank you for your touching and heartfelt words!

**Peaceful Defender** (points at burnt tire)-You aren't going to bury that thing in my _yard_, are you?

**Stanley Hopkins**-Actually, Clarky and I are going to sneak into Mycroft's back yard and bury it there. So he can visit it and remember all the good times!

**Peaceful Defender**-You mean like the time he had you kidnapped out of Paris, after you helped air the Bart's tape?

**Stanley Hopkins**-_Exactly!_

**OC Clarky** (holds up his Bible)-Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here today. In closing, I need only remind you that sometimes we can't explain it when bad things happen, but we do know that they happen for a reason, so says the good Book! So let us be comforted by the fact that the car is up in that good old _Highway in the Sky!_ (Turns to Stanley Hopkins) Ok, Stanley, let's go ahead and transport the poor soul to its final resting place. We can send a tape of the service to Mr. Holmes later!

**Peaceful Defender**-If I lend you two shovels, will you return them?

**OC Clarky** (shrugs)-Sure! Unless Lucky's sneaky government official brother confiscates them from us! Well, folks, that concludes our service! Please remember that there will be a "Celebration of the Life of the Rolls-Royce" at the local pub in two hours! Stanley and I should be done by then! (picks up burnt tire) Let's go, Stanley. Digging a grave is thirsty work, and I want to get me a drink after we are done!

**Peaceful Defender** (watches Stanley Hopkins and OC Clarky walk away with burnt tire)-Why do I get the feeling they won't be coming back!

**OC Chase Douglas** (dabbing his eyes)-It was a touching service!

(Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, and Silvia Anderson are still snickering in the background).

**Peaceful Defender** (messaging forehead)-I'm going to need a review after this!


	37. Chapter 36

**Chapter Thirty Six: Brothers**

"Siblings are the people we practice on, the people who teach us about fairness and cooperation and kindness and caring - quite often the hard way." Pamela Dugdale

* * *

_November 27th, eighteen months after the Fall of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital_

It was a full four days before Mycroft dared to show his face at 221 B Baker Street. Four days of which Sherlock sulked and fumed and "borrowed" John's phone to send several hundred text messages to his brother, all promising dire retribution of some form. Four days of Mrs. Hudson muttering darkly under her breath about what she would do to Mycroft if he were to ever grace her presence again.

To be fair, John was rather impressed that Mycroft decided to come at all.

It started out as a normal morning. After ensuring that Sherlock ate some broth, John went downstairs to join Mrs. Hudson, Mary, and Sheridan for breakfast while Sherlock rested. They were halfway done when there was a knock at the door.

"That's Uncle Mycroft." Sheridan said calmly while eating her waffles.

John almost choked on his tea, but still managed to pull an air of indifference. "How do you know it's Mycroft?"

"He always knocks five times." Sheridan shrugged her shoulders, as if it was no big mystery as to how she knew who was at the door. "I watched him do it at the safe house."

Mrs. Hudson's normally serene face hardened as she scowled fiercely. "I guess I better answer it then."

Mary giggled after Mrs. Hudson rose from her chair and left the kitchen table. "_Poor Mycroft_!"

John smirked. "I just hope you are wrong, Sheridan. For Mycroft's sake."

Sheridan titled her head to the side as she viewed John with frank astonishment. "But I'm _never_ wrong!"

Before John could think of a proper response to _that_ remark (he couldn't have Sheridan develop an ego like Sherlock's), he was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson's loud rantings, which filtered from the entrance hallway.

"Don't you _dare_ give me that line, Mr. Holmes! I don't care if it is for security purposes or not! No one brings my boy home wrapped up in a rug as though he was _Cleopatra_ or something and gets away with it!"

There was a response that was too low to be heard, followed by a "thump" and Mrs. Hudson saying, "I won't hear any excuses, young man!"

"Mrs. Hudson just hit Mycroft with his umbrella." Sheridan supplied helpfully as she took another bite of her waffles.

Mary and John started laughing as Mrs. Hudson stomped back in, holding Mycroft's umbrella firmly in one hand. She was followed by an always-posh Mycroft, who seemed strangely subdued as he cautiously made his way into the room, eying Mrs. Hudson as though she was a wild animal that someone assured him had been recently tamed.

Another woman followed closely behind Mycroft. But for once, it wasn't his ever-present private assistant.

"Mrs. Holmes? Good morning! Are you here to see Sherlock?" Mary asked as the woman stepped into the crowded kitchen.

Ophelia (a.k.a. "Mummy") smiled politely at Mary. "Good morning to you as well, Mary. Yes, I am here to see Sherlock."

Unlike the last time, Ophelia did not enter the flat in her chair, showing that she somehow made it up the steps. Outwardly, she showed no signs of weakness of pain in her legs or feet. If anything gave her away, it was her slow, measured steps.

It wasn't as though Ophelia crept along, or limped. She seemed to be in far too much control of herself for that. Instead, she seemed to always be aware that she had an audience, and each step was precise. Her walk was very dignified, and reminded John of the Hans Christian Anderson story about the mermaid who wanted to become a woman but paid the price by feeling pain every time she took a step.

Somehow, he always imagined that her walk would be slow and dignified, too.

"Ophelia, forgive me for my temper earlier." Mrs. Hudson finally said, addressing the woman a few feet away from her. "But _Mycroft_…"

Ophelia chuckled. "Mycroft knows how much you care for Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson. As their mother, I am well aware of the petty battle of wills they often engage in! And I must ask for your forgiveness as well. It is my fault for coming in on you all like this on such short notice, but I wanted to see how my younger son was faring before my plane left. Mycroft keeps me very well-informed, but sometimes a mother must see these things for herself."

"I could go up and see if he's awake." John offered, rising from his chair.

"Oh, that's alright, John." Ophelia said, motioning for him to return to his seat. "Mycroft wishes to have a word with his brother first, so I shall wait here until they are done speaking."

"Are you sure they should be together?" John asked. "I mean, _of course_ they should talk! They are brothers, after all, but shouldn't there be…"

"My sons will behave themselves. They are grown men, and will conduct themselves accordingly." Ophelia explained.

"Assuming Sherly doesn't destroy my priceless automobiles again." Mycroft muttered , yet still kept his expression impassive.

"Would you care for something, Ophelia?" Mrs. Hudson ventured, after everyone was quiet for a moment.

"If you don't mind, Martha, I would love some tea, please." Ms. Holmes said, regarding the other woman with a kind smile.

"We have some. I'll get you a cuppa. And you, _Mr. Holmes_, would you like anything to drink, since you are here?" Mrs. Hudson said, grumbling slightly yet still making a show of putting on her best manners.

"I would be indebted to you, Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft said easily, acting as though he was not just assaulted by a little old lady with his own umbrella.

"Well, I still have some tea, or coffee, if you would prefer?" Mrs. Hudson venture coolly.

"Tea would be lovely as well, thank you." Mycroft replied graciously.

"Uncle Mycroft." Sheridan greeted her uncle as she finished her last bite and pushed her dish away. "How was your meeting with the Russian representatives?"

"Oh, the usual, my dear." Mycroft said nonchalantly.

"How did you know that he met with Russian diplomats, Sheri?" Mary asked. "Did you manage to find a way to look at his schedule?"

"She deduced it, Ms. Morstan, by observing that my sleeve has given off a faint odor of vodka, which I never drink, unless it is offered by my hosts." Mycroft explained airily.

Mary smiled. "She also knew it was you at the door, too!"

"Which she deduced by the number of times I knocked, of course." Mycroft replied evenly. He regarded his niece for a second. "I see that your appetite has returned. For a while, you were mimicking your father's eating habits. That is to say, you were not eating at all."

Mrs. Hudson walked over and handed her guests their tea, but looked solidly at Mycroft. "Well, since you are here, perhaps _you_ can convince your brother that _he_ needs to eat a little more, if he wants to get strong enough to leave his bed anytime soon!"

Mycroft indulged in a polite smile before taking a tentative sip of his tea. "I sincerely doubt that there is anything I can do to convince my brother to do anything that he does not wish to do, Mrs. Hudson. Even as a child, he was often reluctant to provide his body proper nourishment, often being distracted by his constant desire to understand the world around him and engaging in his various scientific inquiries."

"He _did_ eat almost all that broth this morning, Mrs. Hudson." John reminded his landlady.

"With him worn down to a bone, he should be eating _three _bowls of broth per meal!" Mrs. Hudson protested.

"We will talk to him about it, I promise you." Ophelia answered Mrs. Hudson.

"At least my brother has regained his ability to communicate verbally again." Mycroft observed as he finished off his tea.

"How did you know _that?_" John asked Mycroft. "He only regained his ability to speak last night!"

"I have my ways, Doctor." Mycroft said evasively. "Although I find it strangely reminiscent of my childhood, since Sherlock's first word then was '_no_,' too."

John sighed in exasperation. "You have the flat _bugged_ again, don't you? Either that or your body guards outside have been eavesdropping on us!"

"My 'bodyguards,' as you call them, have been doing an adequate job in ensuring your privacy, I hope?" Mycroft inquired.

Mary smiled. "If you mean that they have managed to keep all the reporters away, then yes, Mr. Holmes. They have performed their task admirably."

"You didn't answer the question, Mycroft." John pointed out. "How have you been keeping tabs on your brother's progress?"

"I have my ways." Mycroft countered evasively. "Although I am rather disappointed in you, John, for allowing my brother the use of your phone and allowing him to send such vile and ungentlemanly threats."

John snorted as he finished his tea. "What did you expect, Mycroft? Sherlock does not like being tricked. Bloody hell, I don't like being tricked!"

"If you had taken my advice earlier and taken a brief respite, John, then I wouldn't have needed to administer a sedative in your drink." Mycroft pointed out.

"You mean you _drugged _my John too?!" Mrs. Hudson said dangerously, her left eye twitching and her fist tightening around the confiscated umbrella.

Mycroft turned his reptilian gaze on the tiny woman. In typical Holmes fashion, he did not flinch at the sight of his impending doom. "John had not found time to rest in over forty-eight hours and was dangerously close to collapsing, as you have observed my brother doing on multiple occasions. I could have let one of my agents knock him out physically, I suppose, but I preferred a more gentle approach."

Mrs. Hudson frowned thoughtfully as she considered Mycroft's reasoning. "Well, don't do it again! If anyone is going to drug my boys so that they get rest, it's going to be _me_!"

With a final act of defiance, Mrs. Hudson whacked Mycroft on the shoulder with the umbrella and left the room with the air of a general who had just issued orders to his soldiers.

John grimaced. "_Brilliant!_ See what you've done, Mycroft! Now I have to worry about Mrs. Hudson drugging me now! And if your brother finds out, he will _never_ eat again!"

Mycroft smirked. "I believe that as long as you and Sherlock do not neglect your health, you need not be concerned about your esteemed landlady."

Ophelia grinned as she set down her tea. "It is too bad I hadn't had the opportunity to have met Martha many years ago, when Mycroft and Sherlock were younger. She is a very strong, hard-working woman, and one of the few I have met who shows unwavering compassion for everyone."

Mary, who had covered her lower face with her hand to hide the smile on her face after she saw Mycroft being hit with his own umbrella, now managed to regain her composure. "Mr. Holmes, I have been meaning to ask you. What is going on with the remaining members of Moriarty's web? Are they a threat to us?"

"I fear, Ms. Morstan, that Moriarty's influence was rather wide-spread. While it is true that all of his employees have been killed or captured, there are still those who belong to other organizations that Sherlock has run afoul of, at one time or another. There is no guarantee that they will leave Sherlock at peace, now that they know he is alive." Mycroft acknowledged.

Mary nodded, absently stirring her tea with a spoon. "Then we probably need to install a security system at some point. And brainstorm on other things in order to stay safe."

Ophelia nodded approving before looking back at her niece. "Well, Sheridan, have you given any thought to what we have discussed?"

Sheridan nodded, pleased to be on a subject that she felt comfortable talking about. "You are referring to our discussion about getting someone to teach me how to play the piano."

"Actually, you already know how to play the piano very well." Ophelia contradicted softly. She caught the question in John's eyes and smiled. "The last time Sheridan was in the safe house, a few days ago, she found the grand piano in the upstairs foyer and played 'Appassionata' very beautifully."

"One of Beethoven's works." Mycroft supplied helpfully to John and Mary. "Opus 57, Piano Sonata Number 23 in F minor, if memory serves me."

"I like the piano." Sheridan replied. "It's a lot like a keyboard on a computer. And Mom liked hearing music."

"So do I!" Ophelia answered. "I should be back in England for the Christmas holidays, and I always have a family get-together. Several members of our extended family always show up, and I'm sure they would love to meet you. Perhaps, if you wouldn't mind too much, you could showcase your talent to them."

"_Very_ subtle, Mummy." Mycroft teased, smirking. "Instead of asking Sherlock directly if he would come, you ask his daughter, knowing she will convince him to attend."

Ophelia snorted dismissively. "After all of these years, I finally have a grandchild, and I wish to be like every other grandparent and show her off, Mycroft! And as for inviting her to make your brother come, my plan was to invite his friends as well so that _they_ will convince him to come!" Ophelia replied, glancing towards Mary and John.

Mary's blue eyes went wide. "Uh, that is very gracious, Mrs. Holmes, but I'm not sure…"

"I will not take 'no' for an answer, my dear." Ophelia replied evenly, but with good humor. "As I am often out of the country, I rarely have a chance to meet the people who are my sons' friends, and this year, I wish to do so!"

Ophelia then looked back at her eldest. "And Mycroft, as much as you have been skirting the issue, I think now is the time for you to go upstairs and speak with your brother. I'll wait down here and get to know these wonderful people better until you two have talked, and then I will speak to Sherlock."

"Yes, Mummy." Mycroft groaned, but obediently got up and left the kitchen to head upstairs.

John grinned as he watched the Government official leave the room. "Perhaps there should be a mediator in there, to make sure they don't kill each other."

"They will not kill each other." Ophelia replied, with an air of satisfaction. "I won't allow them to."

* * *

After eating breakfast, Sherlock feigned drowsiness, as he knew that it was the only way to ensure that John would go and eat breakfast with the rest of the tenants of 221 Baker Street.

Not that he didn't enjoy John's company, of course. But this morning, he had a lot on his mind, and he wanted some time to think about it in peace, and try to sort out the changes of his situation and what they meant in the future.

John was still obviously hurt by Sherlock deception. Sherlock knew that, and was bracing himself for the emotional fallout. But he had not been prepared for the ease in which John had forgiven him.

Still, things had changed. He would now have to _share_ John.

He supposed it was inevitable for some female to eventually snare John into the horrible state called Matrimony.

But Mary wasn't _dull_, at least. She hadn't been before either, when she showed up on Sherlock's doorstep all those years ago with that case concerning her father. And she wasn't the type that would cheat on John or break his heart.

In many ways, she was almost _worthy_ of such a wonderful husband that John would be to her.

Sherlock was willing to adjust to the new conditions, as they were infinitely better than what he anticipated. He was still alive, Moriarty was no more, John had forgiven him, and he was not going to move out. If putting up with an additional female was the price he had to pay, then he would so, and gladly.

It was far better arrangement than he could have hoped for.

But what to do with himself in the meantime? He hadn't seen any of the members of the Yard yet, yet he was prepared for changes there too. He didn't know how Lestrade felt about him. Was he angry at Sherlock? Or was he feeling guilty (which would, in Sherlock's mind, be even worse)?

How would he interact with Stanley Hopkins, the newest Detective Inspector? Would he show to have some intelligence? Would he be willing to let Sherlock work on cases? Would _anyone_ at the Yard allow him to do so?

And then there was the matter of Clarky, the American forensics expert who had actually took his sarcastic suggestion seriously and came over to London, where he was spreading tales about how wonderful "Lucky" was.

Mostly, he was irritated with Clarky. Why didn't the man just tell him to "piss off" and join the masses of people who knew Sherlock to be a heartless, calculating bastard? But the American was either too confident with his own self-worth or too ignorant to understand when he was being insulted.

Sherlock was inclined to believe that is was both.

Still, Clarky was actually willing to listen to his ideas, and tried to learn from them. Also, he was a good match for Molly, who had been one of the few to be steadfast in her faith in Sherlock, despite what the press said before.

And what was with Anderson and Donovan? According to John, they have seemed to have improved dramatically since his departure, and have worked hard to become better at their jobs. Although they still needed improvement, they didn't rush to judgment, as they once did.

What surprised Sherlock the most was the way that _Donovan_, of all people, had reached out and did her best to comfort Sheri, even _after_ she learned that Sherlock was her father.

Not that he expected Donovan to be cruel to a child! It wasn't in her to do _that!_ But based on his conversations with Sheri, he had learned that Donovan had went above and beyond a normal officer's duties, and had shown actual kindness to his daughter. So much so that Sheri had become somewhat attached to her.

_So where did that leave Donovan and Sherlock's previously antagonistic relationship?_

And, of course, there was the matter of Sheridan. Moriarty was gone. For the first time in her life, she could sleep soundly in her bed and not have to worry about being wakened in the night to leave under the cover of darkness, leaving most of her belongings behind as she moved from location to location.

But her life would always carry some risk, of course. Should Sherlock's enemies discover that he had a daughter, they would stop at nothing to try to use her to get to him.

However, the biggest danger, as far as Sherlock was concerned, was what would happen now that they were in London.

On one hand, he wanted to go back to the way things were. Back to the days when he cared for nothing, and no one. Back to the days before he developed feelings for people, so he won't be under constant fear of rejection.

Because eventually, he would _have_ to feel that, once Sheridan saw him for what he really was.

* * *

His musings were interrupted by a noise. Someone was walking down the hallway towards his bedroom. Heavy, measured steps.

Sherlock grunted as he slowly opened his eyes.

His _brother _was here?

_Did he have a death wish?_

As expected, Mycroft entered the room. "Ah, Sherlock! Good to see that you are awake."

Sherlock stared straight up at the ceiling. _He knew this was coming._

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock groaned. The pain killers that John had administered to him earlier had the unfortunate side-effect of making him feel listless and used up, so the usual anger he felt at his brother's interference in his life was considerably dulled at present.

Given the fact that Sherlock couldn't yell back at him (as he could barely speak above a whisper), Mycroft was going to use the situation to his advantage. No doubt Sherlock would have to endure listening to his brother berate him for his actions.

_Well, Mycroft could get over it! Because I am not sorry for leaving him out of it! Bloody hell, the spying git would have tried to intervene!_

"Don't be like that, brother!" Mycroft said, his voice completely neutral. "Will you hear me out, at least?"

"Why?" Sherlock hissed. "I have no intention of hearing a lecture from you, Mycroft!"

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "Actually, I came to apologize."

"For _what?_ For drugging me senseless? Or for telling Moriarty about me?" Sherlock snapped back.

"For that, and for everything else I have done." Mycroft said. For the first time, Mycroft's voice lapsed from his usual calm tenor.

He actually sounded regretful.

Groaning slightly despite the fact that he kept his teeth clenched tightly together, Sherlock rolled onto his back in order to study his brother's expression.

Mycroft Holmes stared back at him. To the untrained eye, he appeared impassive. However, his icy blue eye did not hold the same coldness that they usually did. It was like looking at a frozen pond that was slowly melting under the sunlight.

He wondered how he must look to Mycroft. Slow movements, thin, weak, exhausted. The results of which are entirely on Sherlock's own shoulders, of course. It is highly probable that Mycroft's assistance would have ensured that Sherlock would have suffered no injuries. So Sherlock, loath as he was to admit it, was able to accept that he had no one else to blame but himself for the deplorable condition of his transport.

So why was Mycroft looking so defeated? Did Mycroft actually blame _himself_ that Sherlock was now broken down?

Sherlock frowned. Despite his distrust toward his brother, as well as having absolutely no regard concerning Mycroft's wishes, he still felt uncomfortable, especially with his brother lowering himself to the point that he was actually being _humble._

_And, dammit, he did miss him._

"Although I do _not_ regret all the times I had you sent to rehab. No matter how we both feel on that matter, I still maintain I did the right thing." Mycroft said suddenly.

_Ah, Mycroft never could resist that little barb at Sherlock's expense! _ "Because you had to watch me before I dishonored the family name." Sherlock asked, reproach evident in his tone.

Mycroft paused. "Actually, I did it for selfish reasons. You see, you were the only one who understood what it was like, being us. And you are my brother, so I care what happens to you."

Sherlock looked over at Mycroft curiously_. Since when did Mycroft Holmes ever admit he cared about anyone?_ "I thought emotions were a liability."

"I was wrong."

Sherlock blinked. "It has really happened then, hasn't it?"

"I know you would like nothing better than to pretend the past never occurred…"

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. "No. Not that. I mean _this._" Sherlock turned his head to scowl at Mycroft. "You _admitted _you were wrong. If that isn't proof that you hadn't been kidnapped by some foreign power and systematically brainwashed, then I don't know what is!"

Mycroft smirked at this comment. "One mistake in the course of lifetime! Everyone is entitled to one mistake, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling again, unable to meet his brother's eye. "What do you want me to say, Mycroft? That I _forgive_ you?"

"Hardly, Sherlock. I have done nothing to warrant such forgiveness from you. What I am asking for is a chance to atone."

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, considering. "I don't understand."

"I am asking for a chance to be a better brother, as well as an uncle to Sheridan."

Sherlock's eyes widened. _Here was something he had never considered._ "You actually believe I would keep you away from Sheri?!"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to look confused. "With all that had happened, you would certainly be entitled to cutting me out of your life entirely."

"As if I could!" Sherlock pointed out. _What was Mycroft playing at, anyway?_ "And why would I keep you from seeing Sheri, even if you _are_ an insufferable prat! I think that Sheridan's mental well-being would be best assisted if she actually had a blood relation in her life that was not out to kill her. Wouldn't you agree?" Sherlock finally allowed.

"Even if you mistakenly believe that said blood relation has, and I quote, 'a power complex?'" Mycroft said, the corners of his lips twitching slightly.

"I am inclined to disagree." Sherlock muttered. "You _do_ have a power complex."

Mycroft smiled slightly for the first time.

Both siblings finally looked at one another at the same time, icy eyes meeting stormy ones.

"I have to give you credit, Sherlock." Mycroft muttered after a few moments of silence. "Had I not seen the proof with my own eyes, I never would have thought you capable of watching over a child, much less raising one in less-than-ideal circumstances. But you have risen to the challenge, and admirably, I might add."

Sherlock didn't say anything, as he was trying to think of a suitable reply.

Did Mycroft just _complement_ him?

"Although I still disapprove of your actions in faking your death, your intentions were noble, and arguably heroic." Mycroft paused, uncertain, before he turned and looked at his brother fully. "I'm proud of you."

The silence that stretched out after Mycroft's admission seemed to last for hours, even though it was only for a few minutes. Suddenly uncomfortable, Mycroft rose to his feet and pretended to find Sherlock's periodic table interesting, although he, like Sherlock, already knew it by heart. He could feel his brother's eyes staring at him, but could not face him just now.

Mycroft was a Holmes, through and through. He could not say aloud just how sorry he was for divulging personal details about Sherlock's life to Moriarty in the first place. He could not get down on his knees and beg for Sherlock's forgiveness. He didn't know how. It took everything he had just to admit that he was proud of his brother.

There had been other times, of course, when Sherlock's actions were worthy of praise, but never once did Mycroft tell him that.

Until today, at least.

Sherlock was regarding his brother with a sense of utter bewilderment. Had this exchange happened prior to the events at Bart's, he would probably have sneered and made some cutting remark about his brother's weight, or questioned his brother's intentions.

At the very least, Sherlock would have asked himself if he was back on drugs again and hallucinating.

Mycroft _never _told Sherlock he was proud of him! _Ever!_ It was just something that fell into the category of "emotions," and the Holmes brothers were uncomfortable in dealing with emotions.

Mycroft turned back around. "Mummy is downstairs, by the way. She wished to see you before her departure. She also wanted to talk to Sheridan before she had to leave."

"How are they getting along?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Oh, as well as can be expected. Sheridan is understandably a little shy around her. You know how Mummy has that effect on people." Mycroft replied. "However, Sheridan has certainly managed to use her charm, and is probably convincing Mummy to bring in a piano to your flat as we speak."

Sherlock nodded, unsurprised. He knew his daughter had a natural talent of getting most people to like her, a trait she thankfully inherited from her mother. He had little doubt that Mummy had probably already formed an attachment to the little girl, which meant that future visits would become a necessity.

Mycroft paused, as if debating how to phrase his next words. "Although, between ourselves, perhaps we should wait before we introduce Mummy to _Abby._ I think the members at the New Scotland Yard are still trying to ascertain if our family's fascination for the macabre is genetic or the result of upbringing."

Sherlock smirked. It had been a long time since he felt comfortable in his brother's presence, much less enjoying the brotherly banter. "You _do_ realize, of course, that you will still have to watch yourself! I do not appreciate being drugged against my will!"

Mycroft frowned. "Nor do I appreciate having my Rolls Royce being bombed to pieces!"

Sherlock looked over at Mycroft with annoyance. "I can't _believe _you are still holding a grudge about that! As I recall, it was a _Mercedes_, and that was five years ago…"

"I was referring to the car that you bombed at the New Scotland Yard headquarters, a few weeks ago."

Sherlock gaped at Mycroft. "I never bombed the Yard! Bloody hell, I kept _them_ from being blown up!"

This outburst proved to be too much for Sherlock's abused trachea, and he fell back into a fit of coughing. When it was over, he let his head fall back limply on the pillows.

"Would you like me to get you some water?" Mycroft asked blandly.

Sherlock turned to glare at his brother.

* * *

The silence was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in, John." Mycroft called.

The door opened, and John peeked his blonde head through. "Everything ok in here? Oh, so Sherlock's awake, then?"

"Not for much longer, John! Mycroft's trying to _poison_ me again!" Sherlock whined.

"It was not _poison_. It was a sedative. And technically John was the one who gave it to you…"

"_Oi!_" John protested. "Not-Anthea was the one who handed me the coffee that drugged me, but you admitted you were the one behind it, so don't blame me!"

"And he says I bombed his car a few weeks ago!" Sherlock muttered. "John, tell him he is wrong, and that he needs to go hunt down some crazy bomber or something!"

"Uh…" John squeaked. It was at that moment that John realized that no one had told Sherlock exactly where or how he was found.

"_What!?" _ Sherlock looked over at John, his eyes widened in shock as he abruptly sat up.

Mycroft caught the look on Sherlock's face and chuckled. "Oh, so it was _not_ intentional! That is good to know. If your deduction skills were such that you could tell where my car was…well, never mind that now!"

Mycroft paused, morphing back to his usual pompous persona. "Since I can tell from your expression that you do not recall what happened, allow me to explain. After exploring London's underground sewers, you must have decided at one point that they were too dull for your tastes, and you wished to return to the surface. You planted a grenade you had confiscated from the former Sergeant Baxley under a manhole to do so, but had succumbed to your injuries before you had a chance to climb out."

Sherlock nodded. He _did_ recall that.

_Vaguely._

John smirked. "What you did not know was that you chose a manhole that was located in the garage under the Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Also, you managed to pick the _one spot_ where Mycroft's car was parked. Suffice to say, it was completely totaled!"

Sherlock's mouth twisted into a lopsided smirk. He couldn't help it. The thought of blowing up one of Mycroft's precious cars (abet unintentionally) was hilarious!

_Maybe it got caught on tape!_

"You think the matter is _amusing_, don't you?" Mycroft asked, the picture of exasperation. "Well, _I_ do not share your sense of humor on the matter! Especially when I got a condolence card from Detective Inspector Hopkins and Dr. Clarkson at the Yard, saying how sorry they were for the car's passing and they hoped it would 'Rest in Pieces!' I was also cordially invited to an event at which consisted of several members of the Yard were standing by while Inspector Hopkins and Dr. Clarkson did a mock burial for the only tire that survived the bombing!"

John started laughing. "Lestrade filmed it for us! Clarky managed to get a priest's robes and perform the ceremony! He did it perfectly, too. Didn't crack a smile once!"

"I see that Clarky is still obsessed with theatrics. However, in order to evaluate his acting skills, I will need to see the tape." Sherlock said, trying to sound casual about it.

Mycroft frowned. "I was rather fond of that car! And, as further humiliation, Dr. Clarkson and Detective Inspector Hopkins actually tried to sneak onto my property to bury the said tire. I had to explain the entire incident to my superiors and Mummy!"

Sherlock snickered as he pictured Mycroft's reaction. Normally he would not indulge in such an embarrassing display and would maintain a dignified silence. He silently concluded that his reaction was caused partly from the pain medication he was on.

John chuckled softly too. "Donovan and Anderson also believe that your little stunt was a message of sorts to the Yard. I think they are worried that their cars are next!"

"Maybe they will be." Sherlock said slyly.

"No bombing the Yarders' vehicles, Sherlock! I don't want to bond you out of jail for terroristic acts!" Mycroft said, looking stern.

"You're no fun, Mycroft!" Sherlock muttered, though still looking amused. "Although that explains why you drugged me earlier. You know the only time you have a chance is when I am being betrayed by my transport! Were I in optimal physical form, you would stand no chance of competing with me intellectually!"

Mycroft headed to the door with an air of dignified pride. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"You better hope I don't get up anytime soon, Mycroft!" Sherlock replied, his voice rather hoarse. "Your Porsche is next!"

"You've got to find it first! After John keeps you here for several more weeks, at least." Mycroft smirked at Sherlock's dismayed expression. "I'll see you later, Sherlock. John, if you have any problems concerning my brother, you know how to reach me. I am certain I can employee other methods to get him to obey your instructions until he regains his health."

Sherlock pouted as Mycroft walked out. Seeing his expression, John chuckled.

"And by that statement, I take it that you _admit_ you are not at one hundred percent." John said, smirking.

"As if _that_ will stop me from getting him back!" Sherlock said, putting his fingers together, as he always did when he was considering a difficult puzzle.

John sighed as he dropped down into the arm chair. "So we are back to battling Big Brother, are we?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied neutrally. "What else are siblings good for?"

John groaned at Sherlock's obtuseness. "Emotional support?"

Sherlock huffed. "You are only saying that because of the dramatically improved status of your relationship with your sister, now that she has overcome her addiction to alcohol."

John sputtered. "How...wait! I don't want to know how you know that!" John sighed wearily. "But tell me the truth, Sherlock. Did you _really_ bomb your brother's car on purpose?"

"You shall have to be more specific, John. If you are talking about the incident that happened recently, then I assure you it was nothing more than a welcomed surprise. Whereas the incident with the Mercedes…"

"_Wait!_ Are you telling me that you once bombed your brother's car on _purpose?!"_ John gasped.

Sherlock shrugged. "I made sure there was no one in it at the time! And it's not as if I didn't warn him! I _told_ him that the next time he kidnapped me to force me to eat something, I was going to do it…"

John waved his hand. "I think this is one incident I _don't_ want to know about!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** What!? Sherlock has blown up Mycroft's cars before? On purpose!?

What is _with_ the Holmes brothers!? Can't they fight like the rest of us? Do they have to resort to kidnapping, bombing, and otherwise creating international incidents?

Does anyone else feel sorry for Ophelia now? Her life must be difficult, considering what her sons put her through!

But at least she has Mrs. Hudson there to help her enforce order, be it by broom (in Sherlock's case) or by umbrella (in Mycroft's case).

I did enjoy this chapter, though. If any of you were wondering why Sherlock wasn't bragging about blowing up Mycroft's priceless Rolls Royce before, it was because he didn't know about it, and no one remembered to tell him about it.

Plus, I think Mycroft was slightly concerned that his brother's deductive abilities have grown to the point that Sherlock actually knew where Mycroft's car was parked. Thank goodness it was just a coincidence (we hope!)

The next chapter will feature Ophelia's conversation with Sherlock. Then, Mycroft will learn that there are loopholes in his security, as a very unwelcome visitor comes to London.

Will Sherlock survive the encounter? Or is he is peril?

Find out in the next chapter.

Oh, and please review if you like these chapters, hate these chapters, and so on. I am addicted to reviews almost as much as Chase is addicted to coffee.

I need reviews!

_FEED ME!_

Uh, where did that come from? Ok, ignore the "feed me" line! Obviously, I am sleep deprived again! (But reviews might help!)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." However, I do find enjoyment in my career choice. I like helping others out!

(OC Clarky is in a holding cell, playing his guitar. Stanley Hopkins is in the holding cell beside Clarky's, playing a sad song on a harmonica. Peaceful Defender walks in).

**Peaceful Defender**-Ok, guys. You're free to go! Let's get out of here!

**OC Clarky**-Oh, _good!_ I was getting_ bored_ in here!

**Stanley Hopkins**-You are _bored?_ Clarky, this is absolutely _humiliating! _ I am a _Detective Inspector_, and I have just been jailed for _trespassing!_

**Peaceful Defender**-_Stanley!_ You knew that there was a possibility of Mycroft locking you up when you two went to bury that tire on his estate!

**Stanley Hopkins**-Well, you would think Mycroft would be able to take a joke!

**OC Clarky**-_Jeez_, Stanley! What is the big deal? You would think this was your first arrest or something!

**Stanley Hopkins**-You mean it's _not_ your first arrest!?

**OC Clarky**-Hell, I've been arrested eight times, not including this one!

**Stanley Hopkins**-You have been arrested _nine_ times, and they _still_ let you work as a forensic expert!?

**OC Clarky**-Arrested, but _never convicted!_ Besides, I was framed most of those times!

**Stanley Hopkins**-And the times you were _not_ framed for?

**OC Clarky**-Peaceful Defender represented me! She always managed to work things out behind the scenes, and I never have been to trial!

**Stanley Hopkins** (stares at Peaceful Defender in amazement)-How did you do that?

**Peaceful Defender** (shrugs modestly)-I have my ways. This time, I was able to convince Mycroft to drop the charges on both of you, so you are free to go.

**OC Clarky**-_Really? _ Peaceful Defender, you are one crafty vixen! _I like it!_

**Stanley Hopkins**-How did you pull that off? Did you offer up your first-born child or something?

**Peaceful Defender-**Actually, I promised Mycroft that I would never reveal to Sherlock, directly or indirectly, where Mycroft is hiding his remaining luxury vehicles!

**OC Clarky**-Bribbing a public official, huh? Isn't that illegal?

**Peaceful Defender**-I prefer to think of it as "aggressive negotiations." Now come on! Thanks to you two, I have to go and buy two new shovels. And I don't think you want to see the bill I wrote up!

**Stanley Hopkins** (mutters under his breath)-Crazy, egotistical, American solicitors!

**Peaceful Defender** (smiles sweetly)-At least I'm not carrying a gun! But that could always change!


	38. Chapter 37

**Warning: Do not read this chapter if you have not been given "The Talk." A.k.a. the "Birds and the Bees," "The Stork Discussion," etc. Suggestive language! Be warned!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Seven: Rest**

"The bed is a bundle of paradoxes: we go to it with reluctance, yet we quit it with regret; we make up our minds every night to leave it early, but we make up our bodies every morning to keep it late." Ogden Nash

* * *

"Good morning, Sherlock." Ophelia replied as she settled back into the armchair.

"Mummy." Sherlock acknowledged, but without a hint of his usual arrogance. "And how are you today?"

It was an automatic question, said purely so that he could say _something_, as he already deduced the answer to his question.

Ophelia smiled gently. "Well, the MS is still giving me problems from time to time, but my doctors are truly the best at what they do. I am able to get about for short periods of time now, without relying on my chair. But enough about me! How is your own health?"

"It's fine." Sherlock answered hesitantly. Before Ophelia had come in, he had John prop him up on pillows into a sitting position, so he would look stronger than he actually was.

_Although he doubted that he would ever be able to fool Mummy._

Ophelia sighed with an air of fond exasperation. "You forget that Mycroft reports to me from time to time, darling! I have been told what you have gone through. And I know how frustrated you are, wishing you could get up and about! But these things take time. You must be patient."

"I'm tired of being patient!" Sherlock complained. "I have been _patient_ for the last eighteen months! I want to go back to the way things were! I want to go back to going to crime scenes, catching murderers! I want to be independent!"

"Don't you mean that you want to go back to being lonely, Sherlock?" Ophelia probed gently, taking in her son's troubled expression.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm more comfortable keeping people away."

"Because you don't want to feel pain." Ophelia guessed. "Because you rather cut yourself off from people voluntarily than feel them treat you differently simply because of your gift."

"It's not that simple." Sherlock protested, but half-heartedly. He always felt uncomfortable whenever he talked to his mother, because she was always able to guess what he was thinking, and was persistent. However, she never once criticized him for his words, nor did she ever made him feel like a failure or a disappointment. So he was willing to suffer through the conversations with her more than he was willing to do for almost anyone else.

"No. It isn't. But I will tell you something, Sherlock, and this is something you need to take and keep in your memory palace! Are you listening?" Ophelia asked, her tone still loving, but with a hint of sternness.

Sherlock nodded once.

"Good! Because I want you to understand something. I know _exactly_ what you are going through! After what happened with your father, I had a difficult time trusting anyone. I shut down, Sherlock! Mentally, and physically! Worse, I did so at the expense of my two precious sons! I was _weak_, Sherlock! Do you understand what I am telling you?"

"You aren't weak, Mummy. You never were." Sherlock whispered. "You kept the family together. You're the reason Mycroft and I are even on speaking terms with one another."

"That is where you are wrong, love!" Ophelia said. Gently, she reached out and turned Sherlock head so that she could see his face. "I may have functioned, but I was still weak, because I cut off all ties with people. I could never let anyone get close to me. And unfortunately, you witnessed that and saw it as strength! But true strength is allowing people into your life! It's a risk, but anything worthwhile is never without pain!"

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock asked, his expression blank. "Is it because of Sheri? Are you afraid of what could happen if she stays under my care?"

"Of course not! But _you_ are!" Ophelia pointed out. "You are constantly worrying that you will make a mistake, and that she won't love you anymore! I noticed how she refers to you as 'Dad,' but not 'Father.' Is it because she learned, through trial and error, that you seemed uncomfortable with that title? Because, although it grieves me to speak ill of the dead, your own father was certainly _unworthy_ of that title."

"You deduced quite a bit from just a brief conversation with Sheri." Sherlock admitted grudgingly.

Ophelia nodded. "But that is what I am trying to tell you! You are _strong_, Sherlock! Stronger than your father, and certainly stronger than I! You will make mistakes! All parents do! But that child will always love you, no matter what!"

"How do you know?" Sherlock asked. His face remained stoic, but his eyes silently pleaded for vindication. "How can you possibly know that?"

"Because a parent knows these things, Sherlock. Let me ask you a question. If Sheri decided to do something completely mundane, and entered into a career you didn't approve of, say, the _Yard_, for example? Or if she decided to enter into a relationship with someone whose last name was, oh, I don't know! _Anderson_, perhaps?"

Sherlock shuddered, and his face twisted in revulsion.

Ophelia smiled, pleased to have gotten a response. "If Sheri were to do those things, would you still love her?"

"Assuming I was anything other than a high-functioning sociopath, then yes, I would still love her." Sherlock acknowledged.

"And the fact that she shares the same heritage as this James Moriarty, whom you have recently dealt with? Do you wonder if she will someday become like him?"

"_She will never become like him!_" Sherlock protested angrily. "She's not like him at all!"

"But wasn't he _brilliant,_ despite his criminal behavior? Did he not see things about other people that others could not? Was he not a genius, just like Sheri?"

"That's not the point!" Sherlock argued, feeling frustrated. "I know Sheri! She would never use her gifts to harm people! Yes, Sheridan is a genius, and yes, she may share the same genetic material as one of the most dangerous criminals that I have ever come across, but that doesn't change the fact that Sheridan never is, nor ever will be, like Moriarty!"

"I know that, Sherlock!" Ophelia said. "And you know the reason why I know that?"

"I'm not in a very _patient_ mood today, Mummy! Just make your point!" Sherlock grumbled.

Ophelia nodded. "Very well! I just hope you remember this, as I never repeat myself! The main reason why my granddaughter will never be like this Moriarty is because she is just like _you!_"

The silence that followed Ophelia's proclamation was so palatable that it could have been cut by a knife.

Sherlock considered. He already knew the similarities between himself and Sheridan. Even if one took away the physical similarities, there were so many traits and interests that they both shared. He knew this, and was frightened by it, because he worried that his daughter could become exactly like him one day.

Until his mother had actually made her surprising proclamation, he had not considered that Sheridan being similar to him could _actually_ be a good thing.

Ophelia continued speaking after a moment. "I know you have difficulty acknowledging it to yourself, because when you look at yourself, all you tend to see is your failures. But you never bother to observe your successes! When I see you, I see my son! A handsome, talented, and gifted man who is smarter than almost everyone else around him! An independent thinker who refuses to bow to social conventions or accept the status quo! A person who could be anything, or do anything! And yet you use your gift to save lives! Yes, I know you do it because you enjoy the danger and the challenge of it all, and there are times that I wish you were not so drawn to the criminal underworld, due to the risks involved!"

Sherlock smirked as Ophelia gestured to I.V. attached to Sherlock's hand, but still remained silent.

"But in the end, regardless of why you do it, you still save lives." Ophelia continued, as if she had rehearsed what she had wanted to say for a very long time. "So regardless of whether you see it in yourself or not, you can't change the fact that you are, ultimately, a good person. No matter how much you may wish to deny it, the evidence is there. I see it! Mycroft sees it! Even that doctor downstairs, John Watson, sees it! Otherwise, he would not be here."

Ophelia paused, watching Sherlock's softening expression with some satisfaction. "And the sooner you see that, then the sooner you will realize exactly how much that little girl downstairs is like you. And that, my son, is the reason why she will never be like Moriarty, or will _ever_ cease to love you!"

Sherlock sat back and put his fingers together, like he always did whenever he was trying to work out a difficult puzzle. He thought through his mother's reasoning, and as loathed as he was to admit it, he couldn't find anything that would render his mother's advice irrelevant or faulty.

"Do you feel better, darling?" Ophelia asked, watching her son patiently.

"A little." Sherlock admitted quietly. "But I still want to get out of here and go back to solving cases!"

Ophelia chuckled at her younger son's sad expression and rose from her chair. "As I have said, Sherly, you must be patient, and not rush these things! You will get better within the allotted time, and go back to chasing disreputable villains off the rooftops and giving your dear Mummy a heart attack soon enough!"

"You wouldn't be distressed at all, if Mycroft didn't tattle all the time!" Sherlock sulked.

"Your brother does not '_tattle_,' my dear! He merely keeps tabs on your progress."

"He _tattles!_" Sherlock whined. "I know Mrs. Hudson only tells you certain things! But Mycroft tells you everything! And _you_ let him!"

"And _you_ destroy his automobiles." Ophelia reminded Sherlock, bending down to kiss his forehead.

"This last time was an accident!" Sherlock admitted ruefully, although he was having a difficult time pretending that he was remorseful for what happened.

"And don't think for a moment you can fool me into thinking that you regret it!" Ophelia said fondly. She glanced down at the expensive, twenty-four caret Rolex watch. "Well, I better get going. My plane leaves for Tokyo in less than an hour, and the sooner I finish things up there, the sooner I can come home for the holidays."

"And this year, you want me to attend." Sherlock scowled.

"This year, you won't have a choice! I have already invited your friends to come, and the good Doctor was kind enough to inform me that he won't clear you medically to take cases until January, at the earliest."

"You are all against me!" Sherlock complained. "I'm going to _die_ of boredom due to my idiotic transport, and no one cares!"

"That is why I brought these." Ophelia declared, reaching into her dove-grey handbag. She withdrew several items.

A cleaning rag. Cleaning oil. A packet of new violin strings.

"As you can see, the state of the Stradivarius is absolutely deplorable!" Ophelia continued, walking over and picking up Sherlock's neglected instrument. "Look at the dust on it! It is an_ instrument_, Sherlock! So I advice you to repair it, so that by Christmas, you won't be too out-of-practice to play for me!"

"Yes, Mummy." Sherlock agreed, slightly chagrined.

"And not just for me, love!" Ophelia said calmly. "This place seems like it has been without the works of Mozart and Bach for far too long! I'm sure the residents of Baker Street would appreciate a little classical music!"

"John and Mrs. Hudson complain when I play!" Sherlock mumbled.

"No! They complain when you play at three o'clock in the morning!" Ophelia contradicted.

Sherlock muttered under his breath, but Ophelia managed to hear a few words. One was "Mycroft." Another was "spy." And then the third one was one not to be repeated in front of civilized company.

Ophelia smirked. "I also must insist that you make an effort to eat a little more. If you are impatient to be up and about, then you must now focus on getting your transport in workable condition again. And that means that you must rest up and eat more."

"Mrs. Hudson told you to say that, didn't she?" Sherlock pouted as he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"She did. But, like me, she has the best intentions, and nothing would make us happier than seeing you destroying the kitchen again."

"I think Mrs. Hudson would disagree with you on that." Sherlock pointed out.

Ophelia chuckled. "That is true. Well, I best be off, dear. You take care of yourself, and I'll drop in when I return." Ophelia said, looking at her son fondly.

"Yes, Mummy." Sherlock intoned solemnly.

"Good!" Ophelia answered, pausing for a moment to wrap her arms around her son before she walked out. She knew he didn't like contact, and with his cracked ribs, she didn't want to agrivate his injuries, so she held him gently.

It was probably ill-advised, but at the moment, Ophelia could have cared less. She thought she lost her son once, and didn't want to lose him again without him…_knowing._

Yes, that was it! She didn't want her son to live in ignorance to just how much his absence had hurt them.

She _needed_ him to realize just how much she missed him.

Sherlock hesitated, then raised his arms to return the embrace. His hold was even weaker than his mother's, but it was enough to satisfy Ophelia, because she knew her son was trying to convey his gratitude through his actions, as he was unwilling to do so in words.

It was that simple gesture that lightened Ophelia's heart when she boarded her flight less than an hour later. For the first time in years, she felt that she needed to hurry and finish up her duties as soon as possible.

When she got home, she had two sons to check on, and a granddaughter that she planned on spoiling rotten, provided her friend Martha didn't do it before she got back.

* * *

_November 29__th__, eighteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. _

Due to the overwhelming exhaustion that continued to grip him, Sherlock was rarely disturbed into waking unless it was from a nightmare or if John visibly shook him into awareness.

However, two nights after Mummy and Mycroft visited, he found himself startled awake by his instincts that he was not alone in his bedroom.

It was nothing overt that alerted him. No sound, no foreign smell, no nothing. And yet, subconsciously, Sherlock instinctively knew he was being watched.

Startled by this, he jerked upright and glanced around his room.

It was still nighttime. A slight gust of wind was hitting the windows outside, which were fogged up due to the heat inside and the extreme cold outside. Still, the room felt slightly chilled, and Sherlock was grateful that John had the foresight to leave him a few extra blankets in preparation for the cold night ahead.

Shaking his head groggily for a few seconds, Sherlock peered around the darkened room to see what it was that disturbed him. The door was closed, nothing appeared to be moved…

_The phone was gone!_

The phone that was on his nightstand. The one he used to summon John if he needed his help. It was gone.

Someone had moved it!

_Someone was in the room with him..._

Then he saw the intruder.

For a moment they stared a one another, with Sherlock feeling his heart race, just as it always had whenever he was in danger. Instinctively, he hardened his expression, determined not to show any fear, regardless of what happened.

Nevertheless, he could not keep the contempt and impatience out of his voice.

"What the _bloody hell_ are you doing here, Irene?!"

* * *

Irene smirked as she stood from her crouched position at the foot of Sherlock's bed. "Well, I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I would drop in and say hello!"

Sherlock frowned as he took in Irene's appearance. She was casually dressed in a pair of slacks and a shirt. One of _his_ shirts, in fact. Her hair was slightly tousled, from the wind blowing outside. She was not wearing make-up, which helped to show the glowing tan she had gotten recently while abroad.

She was also wearing one of Sherlock's robes.

"Sheri let you in, didn't she?" Sherlock grumbled.

Irene's smirk became a full smile. "I climbed up the roof, just like last time. Of course, the last time I was here, it was an attic, and not a bedroom. I didn't want to just barge in on her and frighten her, but she was still awake, thank goodness. When I knocked on the window, she was kind enough to open it for me."

Sherlock shook his head in dismay. He couldn't blame Sheri for this, though. Wasn't_ he_ the one who left Sheridan in Irene's care while he went on several missions and stakeouts? So the girl would naturally develop a bond with Irene, and not question her motives. "What excuse did you give her for not using the door?"

Irene shrugged. "I told her that the cold was bound to make Mrs. Hudson hip and John's shoulder hurt, and I didn't want to disturb them, but I was getting cold too, waiting for morning to come, and I asked her to let me in!"

"You must stop manipulating Sheri like that!" Sherlock muttered darkly, then turned and buried himself under the duvet and blankets. "Now go away!"

"_Sherlock!"_ Irene protested, pouting slightly. "I travel half-way around the world to see you, and you treat me this way!"

"You came because Mrs. Atkins asked you to deliver a message to me! And don't tell me that you didn't come to observe me when I am physically unable to retreat from your _deplorable attempts_ at seduction!" Sherlock seethed.

"That's not what you said back in Las Vegas!" Irene reminded him snidely. "And you aren't upset about seeing me! You are upset because you were hoping I would stay away until you were fully healed! You didn't want me to see you vulnerable!"

Sherlock hissed in annoyance, but didn't bother to answer Irene's accusation.

"So how are you?" Irene asked, her voice softer.

"I'm fine." Sherlock muttered under the covers.

"You look terrible."

Sherlock grunted. "You aren't exactly the picture of perfection yourself!"

Irene's soft voice took him by surprise. "I'm serious, Sherlock. You look like you have been to Death's door and back!"

"A minor setback. It is nothing for you to concern yourself with." Sherlock grumbled.

"Aren't you cold at all? Do you need any more blankets or anything? Are you hurting at all?"

"I am perfectly comfortable." Sherlock muttered.

If he stayed stoic long enough, maybe he could guilt Irene into leaving him alone for a few weeks until he could get back on his feet…

"Good! Because _I'm_ freezing! Move over!"

_Or maybe not._

* * *

"Are you comfortable, darling?"

Sherlock sighed. For the last hour, he had to put up with Irene crawling into bed with him and he edged to the opposite side to put as much distance between himself and the Woman as was physically possible. He also struggled to keep alert, as there was no telling what Irene would do to him when he drifted off.

But eventually he did, just to wake up a few hours later to find that Irene had maneuvered her way to where she was curled up beside Sherlock, with one arm wrapped around his torso and her other hand stroking his hair in a circular motion.

"You delight in torturing people, don't you? You enjoy how powerful it makes you feel to exert your will on others."

Irene's self-satisfied smirk could be heard in her tone, even though her face was covered in shadows. "I admit I do find it gratifying. But don't tell me I'm torturing you, Sherlock! You know I wouldn't do that to you!"

"You are taunting me now." Sherlock growled. "You come here, knowing how I don't like anyone to see me in such a deplorable condition, just so you can gloat!"

Irene sighed. "Has it ever occurred to you, Sherlock, that maybe I came here so that I may see for myself that you actually survived?"

"And why would you care?" Sherlock asked. In truth, he was somewhat distracted as Irene continued to rake her fingers through his hair. It was...soothing. And the close contact, with her body heat radiating off of her, helped to dispel any lingering chill that the room would have.

_Not that he would ever tell her that!_

"I can't believe you would ask that! Considering you saved my life. Twice!" Irene muttered.

"So you feel obligated."

"I am the Woman, and I don't feel obligations to anyone!" Irene said contemplatively. "But after your brother and John called me..."

"Mycroft called you?!" Sherlock asked hastily, turning his head slightly to gauge her expression.

"Your brother deduced my involvement, and asked Sheri to give him my number."

Sherlock frowned. Mycroft had not mentioned, or even hinted, that he knew that Irene was alive. Yet if he had known, he would have kept tabs on her, and thus learned that she spent some time with Sherlock. Which meant that he would have confronted Sherlock before he even arrived in London.

So Mycroft could have only found out after Sheridan revealed that he was alive. But why did he deliberately not tell Sherlock that he spoke to Irene?

"Sherlock?" Irene whispered after several moments of silence.

"I'm still awake." Sherlock answered. "I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"About why you put my phone on the shelf on the other side of the room, between my books 'British Birds' and 'The Origin of Tree Worship.'"

Irene chuckled softly. "And here I thought I hid it cleverly!"

"You're mistake was that you put them back in the wrong order. I always keep 'The Origin of Tree Worship' on the left." Sherlock explained lazily.

"Well, you have a strange collection of books, you know!" Irene giggled.

"You still haven't answered my question, though."

"And what question is that?" Irene teased playfully.

"Why are you really here?"

Irene's hiss of surprise was audible in the absolute stillness of the room. "I don't really know myself. It would be less risky for me if I stayed away, I suppose."

"You have enemies everywhere, Irene. You were safer in Sydney. So why did you come here?"

"How did you know...wait, I don't want to know!" Irene replied. "Maybe because I wanted to see you and Sheridan again. I missed you both, you know."

"Are you telling me you were indulging in sentiment, Irene?" Sherlock asked, smirking.

"I prefer to think of it as predatory behavior. I am the predatory, and you belong to me!" Irene said, her voice betraying some possessiveness.

Sherlock scowled again, silently cursing his idiotic transport and the fact that it left him to the mercy of this intriguing yet dangerous woman. "I am not your prey, Irene!"

Irene responded by wrapping her arm closer around him. "Keep telling yourself that!"

* * *

John felt that after Ms. Holmes's departure (he had a difficult time thinking of Sherlock and Mycroft's mother as anything other than _Mummy_), he shouldn't expect any more unexpected guests.

_He couldn't have been more wrong._

His first clue was when he went to the kitchen to get tea after he woke up, just as he had done every morning. By all appearances, everything seemed fine. The kitchen was still neat and tidy, only awaiting Sherlock's full return to health before it descended into a mix between a mad scientist's laboratory and a health hazard.

But there was no reason whatsoever to explain why a riding crop was lying out on the table.

John stared at the object for a long time, hardly daring to believe that what he was seeing was real. Finally, he reached out and cautiously picked up the item, trying to confirm to his doubting mind that what he had found was not a figment of his imagination.

Yes, it _was_ a riding crop.

But who did it belong to?

Somehow, he doubted it belonged to Mary. After all, hadn't he helped her unpack all of her belongings when she moved in? The riding crop didn't belong to Sheridan, either. John knew that to be pure fact, since Sheridan didn't have many possessions to begin with.

_Surely the riding crop didn't belong to Mrs. Hudson, right? I mean, what would a nice old lady need with a riding crop…_

John shuddered as he shook his head to get rid of the disturbing mental image his mind saw fit to torment him with before turning his attention back on the mystery at hand.

Sherlock was an obvious suspect. Perhaps he procured the riding crop during a case, and kept it as an object of curiosity. But it didn't explain why it was here, in the kitchen, on the table. Besides, Sherlock was still extremely weak. John doubted that he could get past his doorway, much less made it past the sitting room and into the kitchen without collapsing at some point.

And even assuming Sherlock was stubborn enough to attempt a trek through the flat, the painkillers he was on would affect his equilibrium.

_So that left only one other option._

"Ah, good morning, John!" A sultry voice greeted him from behind.

Irene Adler smirked playfully as John spun around, her riding crop still in his hands.

* * *

"How did _you_ get in here?"

Irene pouted, making sure to add just enough emotion on her face as to illicit a response from the former army doctor. "Now, John! That's rude! I traveled all the way from Australia to see how Sherlock was doing, and everyone treats me as though I can't be trusted!"

John's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. "May I ask why _this_ is doing out?" He replied, holding out the riding crop.

Irene smirked. "I brought it for Sherlock. As a 'get well present!'"

"And have you utilized your '_get well present?_'" John persisted, his mouth set in a thin line.

Irene shook her head in mock-dismay. "Oh, John, really! Do I look like the type of woman who would take advantage of a man like that?"

John's eyes widened in disbelief.

Irene frowned. "Ok, do I look like the type of woman who would take advantage of a man like that and he isn't even conscious enough to know I'm there?"

"I suppose not." John allowed, even though he seemed far from convinced.

Irene sighed. "John, I didn't help you just so I could torture Sherlock at the first opportunity!"

John crossed his arms in front of his chest and eyed Irene critically.

"Oh, _damn you_, John!" Irene complained, now genuinely exasperated. "I heard what happened, and I risked my safety to come here, all because I care about Sherlock! So stop staring at me as though I'm Moriarty!"

John sighed and uncrossed his arms. "Sorry! I shouldn't be so suspicious. And you're right, of course! I apologize."

"Apology accepted." Irene noted dryly.

"I see that you somehow got past Mycroft's men. May I inquire as to how did you manage to do that?" John asked, placing the riding crop back on the kitchen table and, conveniently, out of her reach.

"Same way I got in the last time! I came in through the back window! With Mycroft's men focused on all the exists, as well as the press, no one noticed me! And Sheri was awake earlier, so she was kind enough to open the window for me." Irene explained, her face slightly smug as she related her brilliance.

"I see." John said guardedly. "Well, would you like anything to drink? I can put the kettle on."

Irene smiled. A genuine smile, this time. "Tea would be wonderful, John! Thank you."

John nodded and began by putting water in the kettle and setting it on the stove to boil, always keeping one eye on his guest.

"Have you talked to Sherlock yet?" John asked, trying and failing to keep his voice light.

Irene sighed as she set down in one of the arm chairs. Sherlock's chair, no less. Because she knew the detective expected her to, at some point. "We talked some. But not much. He was tired, and I didn't want to keep him up!"

"I'm afraid he's been sleeping a lot lately. It's mostly from the painkillers he's on." John admitted.

Irene nodded before looking up and catching John's eye. "John, I need to know something. The press doesn't seem to know what happened, and I keep hearing different stories! What happened after I talked to you?"

John sighed as he poured tea into two waiting mugs. "It's a long story. To summarize what happened, Sherlock went after Moriarty on his own, just like you said he would."

"And Moriarty? He _is_ dead, right? There is no mistake?" Irene asked fearfully.

"Moriarty's dead." John confirmed. "I saw the body myself. I personally watched as they extracted DNA from the body, and I watched when they did the autopsy. If he was faking, then he certainly died on the table. You have my word on that."

Irene nodded as relief washed over her. "But are they sure about the body? It belonging to Moriarty, I mean."

"We're sure. Even if Moriarty was able to fake his DNA results, there was no way he could do the same with Sheridan's DNA. The sample she gave showed that the body in the morgue was a blood relative of hers. It's Moriarty, Irene. He's really gone for good, this time." John answered, watching Irene's expression.

Irene smiled, but still looked shaken. "I'm sorry! It's just that…"

"I understand." John replied. "Sheridan still doubts he's gone, too. She's spent her entire life running from him, so it's hard for her to relax and actually feel safe."

"I know how she feels." Irene acknowledged. "And how is she doing with all this craziness? Is Mycroft treating her well? And the Yard? Is she happy?"

"Sheridan's doing alright, I think. Mycroft adores her, and so does everyone else! The hardest time for her was when Sherlock was in the hospital…"

"How long?" Irene asked.

"Two and a half weeks. Fourteen of those days, he was in a coma. He was badly injured, Irene." John admitted.

Irene noted the glistening in John's eyes and understood. She felt the backs of her own eyes burn. "It's going to hurt to hear about it, John, but I need to know. When I saw Sherlock in there…" Irene coughed, then took a sip of her tea.

"He's gotten better. Much better, Irene! And he'll make a full recovery!" John related, looking at Irene with genuine sympathy.

"He looks like he could break at any moment, John! I never thought I would see him like this!" Irene protested.

"He'll be fine! If I was being completely honest, it's mostly the painkillers I have him on! That's why he seems so…_oblivious_ right now. And I'm probably giving him too much anyway, just so I don't have to listen to him complain!"

Irene shook her head. "_John!_ I know better than that! Sherlock has a very high tolerance to controlled substances!"

John shrugged. "Well, it's only been four weeks, Irene! He'll be fine! He's getting better every day! He's eating. He's already gained a few pounds. He played that damned violin of his last night and woke up half the residents of Baker Street!"

Irene studied John's expression before finally giving him a small smile. "Well, since we are on the subject, why don't you tell fill me in as to the extent of Sherlock's injuries?"

"_Why?_" John asked, his blue eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Irene smirked. "I am just curious. I suppose I could just strip him and examine him myself…"

"He has several fractured ribs, third degree burns, mostly on his arms and the back of his right shoulder." John said hurriedly, clearly wanting to save Sherlock the indignity of being "examined" by a female dominatrix. "He suffered several blows to the back of his skull, and was lucky to have escaped that with a mild concussion. His throat was the worst, I think. First, his neck was cut by the Slasher…"

"Dzundza." Irene acknowledge, her expression icy as she said the name.

John nodded. "Then Moriarty tore his stitches and tried to kill him by strangling him. When we found him, he crawled through almost three miles of water from London's storm water sewer tunnels. He was suffering from shock, and hypothermia. Later, most of his wounds became infected. It was touch-and-go for a bit, but he managed to pull through."

"And you had to deal with all of that." Irene replied. Her voice was soft, and she regarded the doctor kindly.

"Well, don't blame yourself for that! Besides, if you had come, it wouldn't have done you any good anyway. Mycroft and I were the only ones allowed to be with Sherlock for the first two weeks anyway! And I only got in because we were able to convince the hospital staff that I was family!"

"You mean they wouldn't let anyone else see him? Not even _Sheri?"_ Irene asked, dumbfounded.

"They wanted to minimize the risk of infection." John explained. "Sherlock's immune system was already compromised by that point. It took forever for him to finally stabilize enough so we could bring him home."

"Poor Sheri!" Irene whispered.

John observed Irene, a slow smile transforming his face. "I never thought you would be _maternal_, Irene!" John shook his head in disbelief. "But then again, a few years ago I don't think anyone could have convinced me that Sherlock was capable of raising a child, either!"

Irene pouted. "I resent that, John! I have you know that for a period of time, I acted as a surrogate mother to Sheri!"

"Really?" John inquired, setting his mug down and leaning forward in his chair. "So you, Sherlock, and Sheridan were in Spain, playing house?"

"That was the second time." Irene replied. "The first time was almost a year ago, just after Sheri's mother died. I was living in Nevada at the time, and Sherlock showed up in the park with Sheri."

"What happened?" John asked, leaning forward to the point that he ran the distinct possibility of falling out of his chair.

Irene laughed out loud. "Well, after I got over my shock, I casually mentioned that I had always knew Sherlock wasn't a virgin! Unfortunately, I had foolishly said that in front of Sheridan. What followed was one of my more awkward moments when Sheri wished to know what a virgin was, and if she could be one!"

John laughed as he fell back into his chair. "Dare I ask exactly how did you _knew_ Sherlock wasn't a virgin? Or would it be better if I didn't know?"

"Oh, it's not the type of thing for a lady like me to be discussing!" Irene smirked, side-stepping the topic. "Besides, I would prefer it if Mycroft knew as little about me and Sherlock's relationship as possible."

John's cell suddenly went off, indicating he had just received a text.

"And speak of the devil!" Irene said smugly.

* * *

**To: John Watson**

**From: Mycroft Holmes**

**In re: Warning**

_John, do me the courtesy of informing Ms. Adler that I do not appreciate her disturbing Sherlock's rest, and I will personally order my men to come in there and forcibly remove her from the premises!_

John snickered as he glanced at the text. He held it up for Irene to read. "What did you do?"

Irene laughed. "I may have _shared_ Sherlock's bed last night."

John paled. "_Shared his bed?"_

Irene smirked as she observed John's horrified expression. "Not _that_ way, John! I was tired, and I wasn't about to sleep on the floor! So I slept on one side of the bed, and Sherlock slept on the other! Besides, I was cold!"

"Uh-huh." John muttered, looking like he didn't believe a word she said.

Irene giggled. "What is Mycroft's number? I have a response for him!"

John obediantly wrote the number down and handed it to Irene, who then proceeded to send a text message of her own.

**To: Mycroft Holmes**

**From: Irene Adler**

**In re: Manners**

_Dear Mycroft, for the life of me, I cannot comprehend why you would object to my presence! I believe I have proven I am one of your brother's closest allies! Unless, perhaps, you are concerned that Sheridan may have a little brother or sister in the future?_

"That is so _evil_, Irene!" John snickered as he read the message Irene had just sent. A sudden thought occurred to John, and he looked at Irene appraisingly. "You aren't…"

"Of course not, John!" Irene snorted. "I am merely asking Mycroft a question, that's all! Besides, what other reason is there?"

"You mean besides the fact that you are an international criminal, blackmailer, and dominatrix? Or the first time you met Sherlock, it was to drug him senseless, meaning I had to drag him up those stairs on my bum leg? Or the fact that you both must care for each other, to some extent, since he helped fake your death and you came out of hiding to aid him against Moriarty?" John pointed out, counting of the reasons on one hand.

"It was a rhetorical question!" Irene replied, frowning in annoyance. "Ah, Mycroft just sent an answer back!"

**To: Irene Adler**

**From: Mycroft Holmes**

**In re: Answer**

_With all due respect to the past aid you have given my brother, I am still somewhat disinclined to trust you, my dear. Your past record speaks for itself. What I would like to know is why you continue to pursue Sherlock. He is hardly a passionate man, and he is too clever to give you any government secrets that he may or may not have access to._

"You know, he does have a point!" John noted.

Irene glared at John. "You're very cruel, Doctor! And my reasons for 'pursuing' Sherlock hardly needs to be explained or defended, as far as I'm concerned. But since Mycroft is _so_ persuasive…"

Grinning, Irene typed another message.

**To: Mycroft Holmes**

**From: Irene Adler**

**In re: Reason**

_Your brother is great in bed, Mycroft! Need I say more? Or do you wish me to describe it in detail?_

John fell out of his chair, laughing loudly. "Mycroft's going to _kill _you!" He chortled.

Irene shrugged. "Oh, he can get over it! His brother is a grown man, after all! If he wants to, he can stalk the boyfriends that Sheridan is bound to attract in a few years. Believe me, that child is going to be very beautiful someday! So Mycroft better get prepared for when she starts breaking people's hearts! He will probably kidnap and interrogate every suitor that comes her way."

"No doubt you will teach her a few tricks!" John giggled.

"Oh, I've taught her a few things already!" Irene said contemplatively. Then she saw the look of abject horror that crossed John's features. "Oh, get your mind out of the gutter, John! When Sherlock first showed up with Sheridan, she was still depressed over her mother's death, the poor thing! She needed something to keep her entertained, so I taught her some ballet that I learned as a little girl! Not the _other_ things! I am not a complete idiot!"

Before John could think of a witty comeback, Irene's phone signalled that she just received a new message.

**To: Irene Adler**

**From: Mycroft Holmes**

**In re: Answer**

_My dear girl, the last thing I need is any more illusions, true or otherwise, to Sherly's alleged love life! But if you have done anything to him during your alleged "sleeping session" with him last night that did anything to jeopardize his health, I will personally order John to shoot you where you sit!_

"Like I am going to take orders from Mycroft!" John retorted after reading the message.

Irene snickered. "Let's see how long I can go before he throws me out!" Smirking, she typed out another text.

**To: Mycroft Holmes**

**From: Irene Adler**

**In re: Reason**

_My darling Mycroft, as I recall, you were planning on having Sherlock "spanked" earlier! I was merely examining him to see if he could take it! And by the way, he is in rotten shape! Usually, my clients are that way after I am done with them, and not before! I have nothing to work with, Mycroft! How can I do my job if Sherlock won't even be conscious enough to appreciate it! I demand that you pay for my trip expenses here, as it was a wasted trip. I am The Woman, after all, and I don't do things for free!_

"Irene, I fear you won't live to see another sunrise!" John giggled.

Irene shrugged. "Mycroft needs to loosen up! Besides, Sheri will be upset if he disposes of me."

This time, both of their cell phones buzzed.

**To: Mycroft, Irene, John**

**From: Sherlock**

**Re: What?!**

_Am I to understand that while I was busy taking out a dangerous criminal mastermind, the three of you were in negotiations on how Irene would further humiliate me!? So if I was not grievously injured, the three of you were probably going to tie me down and have Irene attack me with her riding crop!?_

Irene frowned, exasperated. "Dammit! I didn't think he was strong enough to get up yet!"

John narrowed his eyes as he studied Irene critically. "What do you mean?"

Irene glared towards the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. "Before I work Sherlock up, I may have placed his phone somewhere else. So he wouldn't be disturbed!"

John paused. "So you put the phone out of his reach. Is that correct?"

Irene smiled flirtatiously. _"Maybe!"_

"So he couldn't text me for help." John sighed. He was probably going to have to go and check on Sherlock, because he hated to think what could have happened to Sherlock while being in Irene's clutches for several hours.

_Although it couldn't have been too bad, if Sherlock felt well enough to get out of bed to retrieve his phone..._

_U__gh! Stop this, John! Stop thinking about Sherlock and Irene!_

_Together._

_In Sherlock's bed._

_And Irene is now in front of him, wearing one of Sherlock's robes._

Irene watched John, a catty expression on her face as she watched his expression and deduced what he was thinking, which further compounded his discomfiture.

He had no idea what Sherlock found so appealing about "The Woman."

Ok, maybe that wasn't true. She was beautiful, and she was brilliant, in her own way. But he found it strange that Sherlock would continue to pursue someone like Irene, or why Irene would do the same to him.

_Maybe it is because they both like the thrill of the hunt…_

"Hi, Irene!"

Irene and John turned to the familiar, lyrical voice of the newest resident of 221 B Baker Street.

"Good morning, Sheri! Did you sleep well?" Irene asked pleasantly, not missing a beat.

Sheridan nodded as she crossed the room over to where John and Irene were sitting. She was already up and dressed for the day, with her hair tied back in a loose ponytail. "I did. And did you sleep well?"

"I did, sweetheart. Thank you for asking!" Irene said, affectionately giving Sheridan a semi-embrace from her seated position. "And have you been practicing your ballet moves?"

"Uh-huh." Sheridan nodded, sending those masses of curls bouncing up and down behind her back. "But I'll need to get some proper shoes, so I can point my toes better! Dad said I may get a pair of ballet slippers for Christmas."

"Well, I think that is pretty much a guarantee, then." Irene gushed.

John watched the entire scene unfold and reached for his tea, utterly bemused by the situation. Just as he was finally coming to terms with the idea of Sherlock doing normal, fatherly things for Sheridan, life throws him a new mystery.

_Now he had to come to terms with a motherly Irene!_

"Did you and Dad have dinner last night?" Sheridan asked suddenly.

John almost choked on his tea. "_WHAT!?_ What did you say?"

Sheridan looked back at John, a confused expression on her face. "Didn't anyone tell you, Uncle John? Irene told me that when she stays with you, every meal is 'dinner.' She doesn't believe in breakfast, or lunch! So when Irene comes, you must always call meals 'dinner.' And Irene is always asking Dad if he wants dinner!"

"_Oh!_" John said, calming down swiftly. Behind Sheri, Irene smirked at John, pleased to show how well she had managed to shield Sheridan from such "adult" information.

_Thank goodness! God forbid that Sheridan ever learned what Irene really meant..._

"Of course, she's just telling me that, because she doesn't think I know about sex yet!" Sheridan said, grinning mischievously.

This time, it was Irene that looked absolutely horrified. "_What!? _ You _knew!_ All that time!?"

Sheridan giggled. "Of course I did! And I always knew what a virgin was, and where babies come from too, but I wanted to see how you and Dad would react if you thought I didn't know! I'm a hacker, remember? Besides, Mom told me before she died, because she didn't think Dad would ever want to have the 'talk' with me!"

If someone had shot John right then, he probably wouldn't have noticed.

That's how shocked he was!

_Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes, two of the brightest minds the world has ever seen, have been duped by a sneaky, pint-sized girl with a wicked sense of humor._

"And, uh, what _exactly_ did your mother tell you?" John finally stammered, trying to hide his amusement and amazment at the situation and finding it extremely difficult.

Sheridan wrinkled her nose. "She said that one day, when I was much older, I wouldn't think boys were _icky._ I doubt it, though. All the boys I have ever seen are morons! They play in the mud, and they can't think for themselves! They have very tiny brains! And they are so _dull! _ But if I do meet someone with some intelligence, whom I really like, it wouldn't matter anyway!"

"Why not?"

Sheridan shrugged. "Mom said that I wasn't allowed to have sex until I was grown up. and according to her, I won't be grown up until I'm thirty!"

Before Irene or John could say anything to that, their phones buzzed to alert them to a new text.

**To: Irene, John, Sherlock**

**From: Mycroft**

**Re: Relief**

_Ah, so the child has already been informed! Ms. Morray was truly a wise person. I concur with her assessment on the age limit as well. Personally, I dreaded having to tell Sheridan about the intricacies involved in human bonding!_

The phones buzzed again with an answering reply.

**To: Mycroft, John, Irene**

**From: Sherlock**

**Re: !**

_Brother mine, your worries are unfounded. I had no intention of allowing you to give the 'talk' to Sheridan, because I remember your feeble attempts when you broached the subject with me. I still am traumatized by my memory of that conversation, and all of my attempts to delete it from my hard drive have been futile. If anyone was going to have this conversation with Sheridan, it was going to be John, as he has the medical expertise and knowledge to explain things better than any of us could._

This time, John allowed the phone to fall from his hand as he stood up, horrified and outraged by what he had just read.

_"SHERLOCK!"_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, if this chapter doesn't prove I suffer from split-personalities, than I don't know what will! In one part, I have an emotional mother-to-son chat, and then I switch over to _Irene!_

Oh, come on, all of you Johnlock and Sherlolly people! I have nothing against either pairing. Nor do I have anything against any Sherlock/OC pairings or Sherlock/(insert name of crazed fan girl here). I really don't! But Irene does, in a strange sense, care for Sherlock. I think he cares for her as well, but he is unsure what that means, which was similar to his relationship with Danielle Morray worked.

But you have to enjoy the way that Irene teases Sherlock, John, and Mycroft. However, in the end, she finds out that she was outwitted herself by Sheridan. LOL!

Sheri, you naughty, naughty girl! You shoot people in the arse, hack into the Pentagon mainframe, and also mess with the adults around you! Who knows _what_ you will do next!

But seriously, Sheridan is still a sweet girl. Her feelings for people are genuine, and I don't think she would ever go to the dark side. Still, everyone keeps forgetting just how intelligent she is, and the fact that she has already seen more of the world than most adults would ever see.

If I have traumatized, sickened, or mentally damaged anyone, then I apologize. This chapter was meant to be heartfelt, and then was supposed to make you all laugh to the point that everyone would stop and look at you as if you had lost your mind. Nothing more, I promise.

Only two chapters left! The sooner I get reviews, the sooner I will post!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." And all work and no sleep makes Peaceful Defender a dull girl!

**OC Chase Douglas** (laughing)-Ha ha! Never underestimate the Chimera, DMP!

**Mycroft Holmes**-Mr. Douglas, you are enjoying this far too much for my liking!

**Peaceful Defender**-Oh, leave him alone, Mycroft! It's not the end of the world, you know. At least the girl knows! No one has to explain it to her!

**Mycroft Holmes** (sighes)-I forget how quickly children grow up now. Personally, I think it is disturbing!

**Peaceful Defender**-You know what _I_ find disturbing? It is the fact that you were the one to give Sherlock the "talk."

**OC Chase Douglas**-_OMG!_ Perfect! _Thank you, Peaceful Defender! _ Thank you!

**Peaceful Defender**-For what?

**OC Chase Douglas** (pulls out his laptop and starts typing furiously) You have just given me an idea that helped me get over my writer's block! I'm going to write a story about the DMP giving the talk to Sherlock! And he will explain it by using his _umbrella!_

**Mycroft Holmes** (turns and glares at Peaceful Defender)-Would you kindly desist in this _humiliation?_ Have I not already paid enough for my alleged "mistakes?"

**Peaceful Defender** (smirks)-As long as the readers enjoy it, then I see no reason why I should stop. Personally, I think having Chase around is good for you! He teaches you humility.

**Mycroft Holmes**-You _do_ realize, of course, this means that I must kill you.

**Peaceful Defender**-_You've got to catch me first! _ (runs off, laughing evilly).

**OC Chase Douglas**-It's sad, you know. She didn't get any reviews in the last chapter. So she hasn't slept! And when she doesn't sleep, she gets..._cranky!_ So I hope she gets at least one review for this chapter. Just so she can sleep.

**Mycroft Holmes**-And the reason for her insomnia has absolutely nothing to do with your latest coffee binge and the fact you were outside her window serenading her with songs from the Beatles?

**OC Chase Douglas** (takes a moment to think about it)-_Nope!_ Must be the lack of reviews!


	39. Chapter 38

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: New Beginnings**

"Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending." Maria Robinson

* * *

The next few days following Irene's "visit" went by swiftly and mostly uneventfully. Sherlock spent almost the entire time in his bedroom, rarely leaving his bed. When he did get up, he could make it a few steps without support, so any trip he made to the sitting room had to be done by leaning on John.

For Sherlock, who hated to rely on others for help, this forced dependency on people was a humbling experience. John, for his part, inwardly reflected on how easy it was to support Sherlock's weight and watched sympathetically as Sherlock struggled to pick up items without his arms failing him.

Sherlock was understandably frustrated. He hated having to lean on John in order to get around. He despised the fact that he couldn't lift his arms high enough to wash out his hair (John had to help him with that). He loathed that he struggled to update his website and had to stop repeatedly because his fingers did not have the strength they normally would have possessed.

But there was nothing he could do about it except to wait for his body to recover.

John had initially been worried that Sherlock, who was known for being driven mad by prolonged periods of inactivity, would drive him crazy by insisting that he be freed from his enforced period of bed rest. In fact, John had mentally been preparing for this eventuality.

But it appeared that _this_ time, at least, his worries were unfounded. Except for the occasional complaint, Sherlock endured the time as best he could.

Most of it seemed to be devoted to catching up on years of missed sleep.

He still had nightmares, of course. Nightmares about Moriarty, in particular. Nightmares that jerked him out of his sleep, gasping for air. But he always calmed down rather quickly, once he realized where he was. And as time went on, the nightmares were becoming fewer.

When he was not sleeping, he spent time with Sheridan, who recounted her adventures after they were separated. She seemed to enjoy her experiences with the various members of the Yard, much to Sherlock eternal chagrin.

John and Mary witnessed when Sheridan told Sherlock how "Sally" and "the guy who looks like Shaggy" had a crush on each other and how she hoped they would "get together."

John and Mary were amused by Sheridan's pronouncement. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to experience some nausea every time it was discussed.

When sleeping and spending time with his daughter did not have his attention, Sherlock spent most of the time talking to John and learning about what happened during his forced hiatus from London. Mary and Mrs. Hudson appeared periodically, but chose not to linger long. Both women seemed to understand the bond that existed between the two flat mates, and acted accordingly. Their visits were enjoyable, but brief.

* * *

_December 3rd, nineteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

Ten days after being released from the hospital, the inhabitants at 221 B Baker Street received a few more unexpected visitors.

John and Mary were on the sofa watching an episode of "Doctor Who" while Sheridan was in the kitchen playing with Sherlock's microscope. Mrs. Hudson had stepped out to do some early Christmas shopping. There was no noise coming from Sherlock's bedroom, which meant he was either resting or typing away on the new laptop that Mycroft had sent him as an "appeasement" gift.

Suddenly, there was a quiet knock at the door.

Puzzled, John turned the volume of the television down and stood up. "Who would be visiting now, I wonder?"

"It's Greg and Sally." Sheridan answered matter-of-factly, not bothering to look up from the microscope. "I think they are here to see you and Dad."

"How do you know that, Sheri?" Mary asked, getting up from the couch as well.

"I could hear them coming up." Sheridan said. "Besides, Greg is one of the few people who has a key to the flat! Do you want me to let them in, John?"

"No Sheri, I'll get it." John said.

It wasn't as though he didn't believe Sheridan. Very likely she deduced the visitors' identities long before they reached the door. But the last few weeks have left him hypervigilant, and he didn't want to take any chances.

He paused and looked through the peep-hole built into the door and sighed with relief.

Sheridan was right. _Again._

_It's going to take some getting used to, having __two__ geniuses in the flat._

Smiling to himself, John undid the latch and unlocked the door. "Good afternoon, Greg, Sally. Is this official business, or are you here to see Sherlock?"

"Both, actually." Lestrade said while he walked into the flat.

"Hi, Greg! Hi, Sally!" Sheridan greeted them cheerfully.

"Hi, Sheri!" Donovan smiled at the sight of the little girl.

"Hello, Sheridan! What do you have there?" Lestrade asked curiously.

"A microscope!" Sheridan said proudly. "I'm teaching myself how to tell the difference between fibers, so I can help Dad at crime scenes!"

Lestrade's smile faltered. "_Crime scenes_?"

"Apparently Sheri's got it in her head that she's going to be a consulting detective like Sherlock." John replied, smirking.

"_Oh, Lord_!" Donovan whispered softly. The Yarder cringed, no doubt experiencing mental images in her head of Sherlock taking his daughter to bloody crime scenes full of decomposing and mutilated corpses.

Lestrade chuckled as he turned to John. "I'll leave it to you and Sherlock to handle _that_ interesting conversation! But first things first! I brought your revolver back." Lestrade reached into his pocket and retrieved the familiar service revolver. He held it out to John, who carefully took it from the inspector's hand.

"I will need to lock this up in a safe, probably." John laughed, looking briefly at Sheridan, who caught him looking at her and smiled innocently before getting back to her slides.

Lestrade grinned. "And I was hoping to see if Sherlock's up to give a statement yet."

John smiled. "He's getting better, actually. I think he may be asleep now, but if you want to see how he's doing…"

"I don't want to impose!" Lestrade raised his hands. "I just thought I come by and see if he was getting better! Also, I have something to tell him. Concerning the Yard. And other things, as well."

John nodded. "Give me a second to see if he's up for visitors, then."

"I don't want to bother him…" Lestrade repeated.

"Let's just see if he is able to talk or not. He tends to either nap or type on the new laptop Mycroft sent, since his was so old." John said. "Let me go check on him. Probably do him some good, anyway. He's been sleeping far too much."

"On average, about nineteen hours a day." Sheridan added helpfully. "Uncle John and Aunt Mary think he's using sleep in an unhealthy way! But Mrs. Hudson thinks Dad looks "adorable" when he sleeps! I heard them say so!"

"_And_ on that note…" John blushed as he hurried across the room. "Make yourselves comfortable."

"Would you or Sally like anything, Greg? Some tea?" Mary asked as John walked towards Sherlock's room.

"Some tea would be lovely, thank you." Lestrade answered, smiling gratefully.

"And you, Sally?" Mary addressed Donovan, who kept her hands in her coat pockets.

"No thanks! I won't be staying long." Donovan muttered softly. "I just need to do something, then I got to get back to work."

"Oh." Mary said, looking confused. "Well, let me know if you change your mind. We have plenty."

* * *

John quietly closed the door behind him and looked around the dim room. As he suspected, Sherlock was curled up and asleep in bed, the blankets tangled around him to where only the top of his head was visible.

What Sheridan had said before was true. It _did_ bother him that Sherlock was sleeping so much. Not only did it seem wrong (as far as _Sherlock_ was concerned), but John also harbored reservations that perhaps Sherlock was using sleep as a shield to protect his mind from dealing with the realities of the damage that the last year had done, both to him and to those around him.

Yet despite this, John was rather reluctant to wake him. It was strange, watching the consulting detective sleep. When his mind wasn't tormenting him with the usual barrage of information, Sherlock's face was peaceful and relaxed, free from the troubles of the past eighteen months and from the barrage of information that assaulted his brain on a daily basis.

Plus, he was _quiet._

John stood at the door, debating whether he should tell Donovan and Lestrade that Sherlock wasn't well enough to see visitors just yet. However, if Sherlock found out they were there and that John chose not to wake him, he may never hear the end of Sherlock's complaints.

Making his decision, John gently tapped the man's shoulder in an attempt to rouse him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock groaned and blearily opened his eyes. He yawned and sat up. "I take it the Yard is here to see me, then."

"How in the world did you know that?" John asked curiously.

"Simple. You would not bother waking me up unless it was important. You have an unhealthy obsession with me getting regular meals and rest. Even though you are concerned by the fact that I am sleeping more than usual." Sherlock grunted as he pulled himself into a sitting position. "Help me into the sitting room."

"Are you crazy?" John asked, looking more amused than exasperated. "That will take forever!"

Sherlock frowned. "The _Met _is here, John! I don't want to appear weak. Especially in front of _idiots!_"

"I got news for you, Sherlock. You _are_ weak! Get over it!" John said. "Besides, how much worse is it going to look when you pass out in front of Greg and Sally?"

"_Sally's here?_" Sherlock asked, eyes wide. "I expected Lestrade. But what is Donovan doing here?"

"You can ask her yourself." John responded neutrally.

"No doubt she is going back to the Yard to gossip about how bad I look!" Sherlock grumbled.

"I thought you didn't care what people thought." John replied, eyebrows raised.

"I don't!" Sherlock answered, eyes downcast.

"Well, let me get you into a robe, at least. And we will brush out your hair before they come in. How's that?" John said.

"I rather go into the sitting room!" Sherlock sulked.

"Not going to happen. Technically, you should still be in the hospital." John said, hiding the rolls of bandages and ointments into a drawer. "Now, are you going to help me make you presentable for guests, or do I need to bring them in anyway?"

"_Fine!_" Sherlock replied sullenly. "Get my blue robe, then."

* * *

"So, Mary, how is Sherlock doing? Physically, I mean." Lestrade asked, sipping his tea.

Mary smiled gently. "He's doing fine. John still won't let him out of bed yet except a few minutes a day, but he's recovering well. He's gained a little weight, and he's eating some. Mycroft's team moved out most of the medical equipment yesterday. The only thing left is the IV drip for the antibiotics and the pain medication, and I imagine that will be removed soon. It's just for a few more days, when we are certain that his wounds have healed to the point that infection is no longer a concern."

"How's his throat?" Lestrade asked.

"It's still bruised some." Mary admitted. "John removed the stitches, but it looks like it will probably leave a scar. Same with the bullet wound to his side, too."

Sally flinched a little upon hearing that piece of news. Unlike Greg, she refused to sit down and stood by impatiently. "How is he otherwise?"

"As well as can be expected, I guess." Mary said evasively. "He's rather quiet."

"Has he driven you and John crazy yet?" Lestrade asked.

"No. Not really. Like I said, he stays pretty quiet. He complains a little about not being able to move around, but nothing more than that." Mary responded.

"Oh." Lestrade said, looking worriedly at Donovan. The two exchanged a knowing look.

_Sherlock not complaining about how bored he was bordered on the surreal. _

_It just wasn't Sherlock._

"Dad will be ok." Sheridan offered. She had followed the adults to the sitting room and was sitting on the couch next to Mary. "He won't stay down for long. He never does!"

Lestrade smiled at the girl's undisguised pride and confidence in Sherlock.

"How about you, Sheri?" Donovan asked, smiling a little herself. "Anything new with you?"

Sheridan beamed. "I get to go to school soon. At the beginning of next year. I'm going to the school Aunt Mary teaches at! I already got my uniform and everything!"

"Well, that's good news!" Lestrade said happily.

"It is." Mary smiled. "She will be in the advanced levels, of course, but she will also get to spend time with kids her own age. And I'll be there if she needs anything."

"Uh-huh." Sheridan nodded. "And Dad promised me that when he feels better, we will practice 'deduction' again, so that I can get better at it."

"That's great, Sheri." Lestrade said. "Do you know when he will be up to it?"

"Uncle John said that Dad can't leave his bed for another week, and he's not allowed to go back to work till after Christmas. Personally, I think Uncle John is just using it as an excuse for grounding Dad!"

"I am _not_, Sheridan Joan Morray-Holmes!" John said as he walked into the sitting room. "I want him to get better, that's all." He managed to look indigent.

"When Uncle John uses my entire name, then he's letting me know I'm in trouble." Sheridan confided in the Yarders before turning towards John. "Dad got hypothermia and frostbite when he went to get my medicine." Sheridan argued. "And even then he refused to stay in bed. I know because he demanded that he stay with me until I could breathe again."

"Well, sometimes '_Dad_' is foolish! He seems to think he is invincible, and he doesn't take care of himself. _That's_ why he's sick now!" John replied back. He turned back to Lestrade. "Sherlock's ready to see you now, Greg."

"I'll go first, Greg, if that's ok." Donovan muttered. "Then I'll go back to the station."

"Sure, Sally." Lestrade answered. "Take your time. I'm in no hurry."

"Thanks, Greg." Donovan answered. "I won't be but a few minutes."

* * *

Donovan quietly closed the door behind her and turned around. Despite the calm aura she hoped she was conveying, her stomach was in knots. She felt nervous, but she wanted to finish what she set out to do.

_What she needed to do._

Sherlock Holmes sat upright, his back supported by several pillows. He was wearing pajamas and a royal blue robe that was tied in front. Several blankets and a duvet covered him from the waist down. His face was composed, the usual expression that he had when he was either bored or unconcerned.

It reminded her of that day, over a year and a half ago, when she confronted him about why Claudette screamed when she saw him. He had this expression then, too.

Except his eyes were different. Before, they matched the expression on his face.

But today they were staring at her intently, as though half-expecting for her to snap a pair of cuffs on him.

Guilt welled up inside her.

_If only she could pretend that things were the same. If only the last eighteen months never happened!_

But she couldn't. Whatever hell everyone else went through was _nothing _compared to what Sherlock must have gone through. He still had a bandage wrapped around his neck, and she fought back a shudder as she recalled what _could_ have happened to him.

"Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock greeted her. He sounded almost normal, if not a little hoarse. "You've changed since I last saw you."

Donovan blinked, confused. "What?"

"You haven't been sleeping much at all. There are bags under your eyes. Your clothes are rumpled. You are usually more put-together than this. You have overworked yourself, and it shows."

Donovan gave a tired smile. _Figures the Freak would start deducing her. _"Look who's talking!"

Sherlock gave a smirk before his face became impassive again. The silence hung between them as she stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, hardly able to meet his eyes.

Donovan tried first. "Listen, Sherlock. I came to apologize."

Sherlock stayed silent. Now _he_ was the one who was unable to look up.

Donovan tried again. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. For everything. For getting you arrested, for suspecting you in the first place, for all of it. For all those times I called you a freak, and insulted you. I _am_ sorry! I mean that."

The silence intensified. Donovan felt her stomach tighten even more.

_What am I doing here? This is too personal. I shouldn't have come._

Looking down at her shoes, she started to turn around to exit the room.

"Don't!" Sherlock said suddenly. Donovan paused mid-step.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Stay. Just for a minute."

Donovan looked up. Hope rose in her chest.

Sherlock raised his head and looked directly at her. "You need to stop blaming yourself, Donovan." Sherlock said calmly. "What happened was not your fault. You were tricked, just like everyone else. I don't blame you, so you need to stop feeling responsible. It wasn't your fault."

"I still feel bad." Donovan muttered. She recalled how Sheridan said the same words, a few weeks ago, and her guilt rose to new levels.

Sherlock looked at her appraisingly. "Well, you shouldn't. It's annoying! What do I need to do so that things back to the way they were before all this happened?"

Donovan frowned. "You want us to go back to _hating_ each other?"

Sherlock looked down again and stayed silent for a moment before answering. "I never hated you, Sally. I may even go so far as to say I respect you. _A little_. You care about children, which is what motivated you in the first place. You were also kind to Sheridan when she needed it. Even _after_ you discovered her parentage. I guess I owe you, for that."

Donovan nodded. "She has good parentage, I'd say! She's a sweet kid, Sherlock. You did a good job. Looking out for her, I mean! I don't think anyone else could have done better!"

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered, then cleared his throat again. He still looked uncomfortable with the conversation.

"I brought you something. Well, something that already belongs to you, anyway." Donovan said, choosing to break the silence.

"If it is another shock blanket like the one Inspector Hopkins sent me, you can bloody well take it back!" Sherlock grumbled. He nodded towards the blanket folded and resting on the back of the arm-chair.

It was a standard shock blanket except that Hopkins had found someone to stitch a giant white "T" in the middle of it. No doubt it was meant as a reminder of Sherlock's brief residency in Knoxville, the land of "shock blankets and rotting corpses."

Donovan laughed. It felt good, unrestrained.

_Just wait till Clarky finds out! _

"Actually, I brought you this." Donovan smiled, pulling a familiar blue scarf from her pocket. "Took it out of evidence and then took up a collection to have it cleaned up and repaired. We thought you might want it back!"

Sherlock's expression softened as he retrieved the scarf that Donovan handed to him. "That was certainly very…_courteous_ of the Yard."

"You're welcome!" Donovan teased.

Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his neck. "I thought it was lost." He said softly, almost to himself.

"I found it. Thought you would like it back." Donovan answered. She didn't mention _where_ she found it. _But Sherlock probably knew where it ended up, knowing him._ "Anyway, I'll see you around, Sherlock."

"Donovan, do me a favor and call me a freak from time to time, alright? This humbleness doesn't suit you, and I don't like it." Sherlock replied to her retreating back.

"You _want_ me to call you a freak?" Donovan asked, shocked. "Are you on drugs again? Do we need to do another drug bust?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Except for some painkillers that John administers to me, I assure you that I am clean. But I don't mind being called a freak anymore. It would help me to be reminded of the fact every now and then."

Donovan bit her lip nervously. "I don't think Greg or John will like that…"

"And in return I'll keep my comments about the Yard's utter incompetence and lack of intelligence to a minimum."

Donovan smiled. "Don't make promises you can't keep! See you around, _Freak_."

Sherlock smiled. _He actually smiled._ "I'll be looking forward to it!"

* * *

Lestrade walked awkwardly into Sherlock's room a minute after Donovan left. He had expected Sally to leave in tears or look angry, but she left the flat looking relieved.

He took that as a good sign.

"How are you doing, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, taking a seat in the vacant armchair.

"_Bored!_ I hope you have something interesting for me to do!" Sherlock replied evenly, not giving a hint as to what he was thinking.

Greg sighed inwardly. _Typical Sherlock behavior. To act like nothing had happened._

"Actually, I was hoping you felt up to giving me a statement about what happened." Lestrade replied officially, taking out a note pad and a pen from his coat pocket.

"I'm able to give a statement." Sherlock replied neutrally, shifting around to get more comfortable. His right hand was briefly uncovered, giving Lestrade a glimpse of the IV tube that was still attached to a vein in Sherlock's wrist. Lestrade quickly looked away, then sneaked a glance at the bandage around Sherlock's neck, which was barely visible under the blue scarf that Sally had brought back as a peace-offering.

"Greg, I'm _injured_, not _dying!_" Sherlock snapped, glaring at him. "You've seen me worse! So stop gawking and act professional!"

"Well, I have seen you _dead_. I suppose that's worse." Lestrade said feebly. It was a weak joke, and he hated himself for saying it the moment the words left his mouth. "Listen, Sherlock, before we get into this…"

"I already know what you are going to say, Greg. And it is completely unnecessary." Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.

Lestrade stared. "How do you know what I am going to say?"

"Because it is _obvious_." Sherlock retorted. "And you are too predictable!"

"Yeah, well, I might surprise you." Lestrade answered.

"Fine! _Surprise me!_" Sherlock mumbled sarcastically.

"Well, for one thing, I am authorized to inform you that the Met has created a new position. A paid position, by the way. It's yours, if you want it. You work whatever cases you want, and you get a badge, so you don't go around stealing mine all the time! But only if you want to, of course." Lestrade finished, looking hopefully at Sherlock.

"Let me understand this." Sherlock said dispassionately. "The Yard, who hates me and wanted to arrest me last year, now wants to offer me a _job_?"

"Uh…" Lestrade stammered, at a loss.

"I accept." Sherlock replied easily. "As long as John gets a position too."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock. "I'll have to ask John about that, but…"

"Let me worry about John." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Just see that it gets done. I don't care if John gets the salary. I don't need it. I just want interesting cases."

"Just like that?" Lestrade asked Sherlock. "Without another thought, you just forgive the Yard and want to work with us again?"

"To forgive would imply that I was either angered or upset by something the Yard did to me, Greg. As I already explained to Donovan, you were duped by a genius psychopath. As you are all idiots with miniscule I.Q.s, you had virtually no chance. So I am not taking it personal. And I have you know that I am a high-functioning sociopath. Emotions don't affect me or cloud my judgment!"

Lestrade smirked. "Whatever you say, Sherlock."

"Stop that, Greg!" Sherlock muttered, darting a glare in Lestrade's direction.

"I'll try." Lestrade said. "Oh, and by the way, thank you for saving my life."

Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes. "I _knew_ you could not resist…"

"Did I mention how incredibly sorry I am for doubting you in the first place, and how I am willing to crawl over hot coals to show it?" Lestrade replied seriously.

"_Enough_, Lestrade! You are becoming dull. And the rest of the Yard would not like to see you covered with third-degree burns! Especially on my account! " Sherlock answered.

"Fine!" Lestrade said. "What if I told you that I consider you a friend too? Would _that_ surprise you?"

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, studying his face for any signs of deception. "You're serious, aren't you?" Sherlock replied a moment later, looking confused.

"Why would I not be serious, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, looking a little flustered. "Hell, Sherlock! Not many people would jump off a building to save my life. Although I still can't believe you were crazy enough to jump off a _building!_"

Sherlock squirmed, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Stop it, Greg. You are sounding idiotic again. I did what I had to do, and that's all there is to it. No discussion is necessary. Now, are you going to get my statement, or do I have to call John in here to extradite you out of here for annoying me, which is most detrimental to my health?"

"Fine." Lestrade said, grinning. He could tell from Sherlock manner that while he didn't want to acknowledge it verbally, he was touched by Lestrade's declaration. "We won't talk anymore about it."

"Good!" Sherlock said, looking slightly relieved. "So, what do you want to ask first?"

"How about the incident with the Slasher? Then we will move on to what happened at the warehouse." Lestrade said, getting his pen ready.

Sherlock nodded. He took a deep breath before beginning. "I deduced long ago that the Slasher was working for Moriarty…"

* * *

The interview lasted well over two hours. Sherlock recounted the events that led up to where he woke up in the hospital, faithfully divulging the events as they transpired.

_Almost all the events_.

The conversation that occurred between Moriarty and himself he kept secret, as well as the final minutes inside the building. Sherlock felt it was unnecessary, and also would serve to make him uncomfortable and Lestrade feel guilty.

The trip through the tunnels was glossed over as well.

Lestrade, for his part, sensed that Sherlock was holding back, but was wise enough not to press the matter.

"Well, I guess that covers everything." Lestrade said, pocketing the note pad and the pen before rising from the chair. "This is just procedure, you know. The investigations have already been closed. The Satanic Slasher was killed in self-defense. And according to the evidence, Moriarty committed suicide by jumping to his death. I don't think _anyone_ is going to challenge the evidence! This is a formality, nothing more."

"Yeah." Sherlock mumbled, looking tired. "Let me guess. _Anderson_ wrote the report on Moriarty's death."

"You're right. And Clarky did his own report, and it matches Anderson's conclusions. The man was a psychopath, after all. After seeing you, he snapped, and jumped out the window. End of story."

Sherlock looked down. As idiotic as Anderson was, even an _infant_ could see that Moriarty did not jump out of a window _backwards!_ So either Anderson was even dumber than he looked (which was possible), or he _deliberately_ misinterpreted the evidence.

However, Clarky was no idiot. So _he_ would have known Jim did not willingly jump!

And yet he and Anderson were covering for him, _Sherlock Holmes_, to protect him from any embarrassing questions from an inquest may ask him.

_That was...unexpected._

He wondered if Anderson was bullied into altering the report, or if he had done it of his own free will.

He wasn't sure if he ever wanted to find out.

"So, I guess I will be seeing you around?" Lestrade asked.

"Like you could get rid of me!" Sherlock replied, managing to sound like his old, arrogant self. "Just so you know, if I had _actually_ died, I would have come back and haunted the Yard. I would have taken up residence in your office! And made life miserable for Anderson!"

"Well, you got some help there!" Lestrade replied. "Clarky is doing that on his own."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. He was already well-acquianted with Clarky's questionable humor. "Clarky an idiot, obviously! All Yarders are! But he can be useful, from time to time." Sherlock replied. "He also understands the importance of experiments."

"Yeah, yeah! I get it! I'll tell Clarky you said hello and that you look forward on how you two can brainstorm on new ways to experiment on poor, unsuspecting corpses!" Lestrade replied sarcastically. "Just rest up and get well first, though! I don't want to see you at _any_ crime scenes unless you are one hundred percent! Or I will lock you up myself! Understand?"

"Perfectly, Inspector." Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes.

"See you, Sherlock." Lestrade gave a slight wave and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Sherlock groaned as he settled himself on the bed.

_This weakness was a nuisance. _

He hated not being able to stay awake longer than a few hours at a time. It was so _boring_, and he was impatient to be up and about again.

He was happy to see Lestrade, though. And his visit with Sally, while uncomfortable at times, turned out to be a relief.

He would _never_ admit it out loud, but he _did_ miss working with the Yard on cases. It was exciting, and broke up the humdrum existence of his life. Although most of the cases were simple, there were a few that presented him with a challenge. And he missed being _brilliant_, and _useful._

There was a knock at the door, and John opened it to peer inside the room. "May I come in?"

"I'm chained to the bed, John! It's not like I can stop you!" Sherlock grumbled.

"Well_, someone's_ feeling better!" John replied back as he walked towards the chair and sat down. "_So._ What did you and Lestrade talk about?"

"He got my statement." Sherlock said evasively.

"_No shit, Sherlock_!" John muttered, exasperated. "I'm serious! What did he want to tell you?"

"It seems that I have been offered a job with the Yard. To do the same work I did before, but I get paid."

"Well, that's great!" John said, looking cheerful.

"I'm not going to take it." Sherlock answered.

"_What?_ Why not?" John asked. "It's a _job!_ Doing something you actually _like_ doing!"

"I'm not going to take it, unless you come too." Sherlock replied evenly.

"Uh, Sherlock? Are we hallucinating again?" John asked. "I already got a job…"

"Part-time. Besides, you can do both. Or you can quit your job and come work with me."

John frowned. "Are you _nuts_, Sherlock? Wait, forget I asked that! Why the _hell_ would I go back to detective work?"

"Because you like to catch the Bad Men?" Sheridan quipped, sticking her head in through the bedroom door.

"_Sheri!_ Get out of here! It's bad to eavesdrop!" John said, looking stern. Sheridan giggled and pulled the door closed. "Ok, what were we saying?"

"We were discussing how you planned on coming to help me on cases, John. Do keep up." Sherlock sighed impatiently.

"Uh, no! After everything, do you think I am just going to throw myself into danger again?!" John said, his face flushing crimson.

"It's what you live for. Besides, I need a partner. Someone to make sure I don't get injured, like I did this time. And Sheridan's too young."

"Oh, great to know!" John muttered sarcastically. "So it was between me and an eight year old, and I get the nod because I presented less legal problems, right?"

"Well, that _is_ true. But I prefer my blogger in any case. Although I _am_ surprised the people from Children's Services haven't been by to harass me about why Sheridan knows how to use a gun."

"Because I unleashed your _brother_ on them, that's why!" John muttered. "You know, if I refuse, you are liable to take Sheridan out on cases just to spite me!"

"I wouldn't do anything to put Sheri in danger if I can avoid it, John." Sherlock muttered angrily, daring John to argue with him.

"Then that means you are left to your own devices! Well, looks like I don't have a choice! I've got to discuss this with Mary, though. She will have the final word."

"Not even married yet, and she's already got you trained, doesn't she, John?" Sherlock teased, grinning.

"Not as much as Sheridan has you trained." John shot back. "Speaking of which, we may have a little problem there. Have you seen the paper today, by the way?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. After what happened before, I could care less about the press singing my praises. Knowing them, they will be just as quick to condemn me if the opportunity arises again."

"What about Ms. Hunter?" John pointed out. "She saw the truth from the beginning."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine! So one reporter is slightly more intelligent than her colleagues! And that's not saying much! Although I still hate the fact that I have to do an exclusive interview with her later!"

"I think it is the lest you can do, considering all she's done for you..."

"_I already promised I'll do it!"_ Sherlock complained. "But the only reason I am doing it is because you and Mycroft are forcing me to!"

John sighed. "Yes! We are _so_ cruel to you! But enough about that. We have a situation."

Sherlock looked up curiously. "Why?"

"Well, while you were at the hospital, Lestrade took Sheridan to the Yard one day so that they could try to cheer her up. She found your hat in Sally's desk…"

"It's _not_ my hat!" Sherlock interrupted.

"And a reporter was there…"

"_What?!_" Sherlock snapped.

John nodded his head ruefully as he handed Sherlock the newspaper article. "As you have deduced, the press now knows about Sheridan. They are calling her 'Hat Girl!' And there is a picture of her, wearing your hat!" John explained.

Sherlock growled slightly as he scanned the main points of the article.

Sure enough, Sheridan was pictured, smiling and wearing that damned hat! The writer went into detail about an unnamed girl he had met while doing a story at the Yard, and how the child was able to tell him details about his life based on observing the most miniscule details about himself.

Although Sheridan was not named, the article made a vague reference as to how similar the girl's ability was to that of the recently returned consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. A smaller picture of him (again, in that damned hat!) was positioned beside Sheridan's own photo, enforcing the writer's assertion that there was a connection between Sherlock and Sheridan.

_Even the most oblivious person alive would be able to see the resemblance between the two!_

Sherlock scowled as he considered the consequences resulting from this article. _Now his enemies know what Sheridan looks like! _ "Get Mycroft on the line now! We need to do damage control!" Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

John giggled. "So we are declaring a truce with Big Brother?"

"Call him _now_, John Hamish Watson!" Sherlock ordered.

"Uh-oh!" Sheridan said, peeking into the room again. "Dad just used _all_ of your names! You are in _big_ trouble, Uncle John!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, there you have it! After hiding out for a bit, Donovan and Lestrade have finally come to face Sherlock. It took them long enough, I think, but at least they came.

I hope Sherlock's and Donovan's interaction was realistic. They go from seemingly despising each other to realizing they have quite a bit in common.

I think that once Donovan finally saw that Sherlock had a human side to him, and once she saw how much he cared for his daughter, it has become impossible for Donovan to hate him.

Fatherhood has changed Sherlock too, because he understands why Donovan was so intent on arresting him. Aside from their mutual dislike, I think that Donovan truly believed that Sherlock kidnapped and harmed those kids. And now the Sherlock has a child of his own, and has faced someone trying to hurt his child, he can now understand what motivated Donovan in the first place.

I think the Sherlock is also uncomfortable with the fact that Lestrade is grateful for what he did. After all, Sherlock has been despised by most people for so long that he is uncomfortable with the fact that people may actually like him (sad, I know.)

And as for the press? As far as Sherlock is concerned, I don't think he will ever trust them again. Not unless they prove themselves to him, as Violet Hunter has.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own "Sherlock!" And I'm going through "author's withdrawal!"

**OC Chase Douglas**-Peaceful Defender, are you ok?

**Peaceful Defender** (crying pitifully)-_NOOOO!_

**OC Chase Douglas**-Is it your bumper? Look, I brought it back! (hesitantly holds up Peaceful Defender's old bumper, which has multiple dents in it).

**Peaceful Defender**-It's not that! Chase, the next chapter is the last one! The story is almost over! And I actually enjoyed sharing this story! I didn't think I would, but I do!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Oh! So you are going through "author's withdrawal!" I gotcha!

**Peaceful Defender**-_What?_

**OC Chase Douglas**-I know exactly what you are going through! You write a story, and then stress about posting it for a long time before you finally post a chapter! It's almost like publishing a part of your soul!

**Peaceful Defender**-Uh, Chase, you _do_ know you are fictional, right?

**OC Chase Douglas**-I know, but I still know what you are going through! Now you are almost at the end, and you want to really please everyone who ever bothered to read one line of your story!

**Peaceful Defender** (sniffs)-True! I hope they all love the ending! But it's still...the end!

**OC Chase Douglas**-So write another story!

**Peaceful Defender**-_WHAT!?_

**OC Chase Douglas**-Yeah! Write a couple of shorts, or a sequel, or do a new story entirely! The first story is always the hardest!

**Peaceful Defender**-Chase, I wrote this story after watching "The Reichenbach Fall" and had a dream afterwards. Then I spent two weeks writing it out because I couldn't sleep until I did! And look where it has gotten me! I am talking to a fictional character that I myself have created! If I write again, I may lose my _sanity!_

**OC Chase Douglas**-Uh, Peaceful Defender? You are an _attorney!_ By definition, you _have_ no sanity!

**Peaceful Defender** (considers)-True! But I don't know what I can write now!

**OC Chase Douglas**-What you need is some inspiration! Look at me! I spent the last year with the DMP, and I've got a tone of inspiration!

**Peaceful Defender** (stares at Chase incredulously)-_I bet!_

**OC Chase Douglas**-Oh, it's true! Already I wrote "The DMP's Guide On Kidnapping!", "One Thousand And One Names for Anthea!", and "DMP, Secret Agent!" The last one describes all the gadgets that the DMP has in his umbrella! Oh, I also wrote a few _Sherlolly_ flicks, a few _Johnlock_ romances, some steamy _Mystrade_ stories, with the umbrella of course...

**Peaceful Defender**-OK! I get the point! But I can't just sit down and write, Chase! I need inspiration, and I don't get it by watching a sneaky government person with a death grip on an umbrella! And I went overboard with this story! Did you see the word count?

**OC Chase Douglas**-Over _250,000 words!_ I'm surprised anyone has had the patience to stick to the end!

**Peaceful Defender** (sarcastically)-Thanks a lot!

**OC Chase Douglas**-No problem! Oh, and you wouldn't happen to have any coffee around, would you? The DMP chased me out, because I was singing again!

**Peaceful Defender**-It's in the kitchen.

**OC Chase Douglas**-_YAH! Whoo-hoo!_ (runs in a full sprint to the kitchen. Sounds of broken dishes and overturned furniture heard).

**Peaceful Defender**-I hope I get some reviews after this. And because all my readers have been so supportive, I will write something again, once my fingers heal from typing so much! Oh, and if anyone wants to adopt and/or borrow Chase for _anything_, then you are all welcomed to have him! He's driving me crazy!


	40. Chapter 39

**This is it! The last chapter! Hope you all enjoy it!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty Nine: Moving Forward**

"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards." Søren Kierkegaard

* * *

_December 10th, nineteen months after the Fall at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital._

Ms. Hudson smiled to herself as she sat on her couch, simultaneously watching her favorite afternoon soap opera while wrapping the last of the gifts she had bought for Christmas. She knew that it was still a few weeks away, of course, but already she felt her mind race as she pondered how to make this particular holiday truly special.

After all, she had a lot to be grateful for. This time last year, it was just her and John, without any plans and few reasons to feel festive. John had been so depressed then, and she was still grieving. For the first time since leaving her abusive husband, she failed to put up any decorations.

But this year was going to be so different! One of her boys, John, was happy again, with a bounce in his step and a smile on his face. Her other boy, Sherlock, literally came back from the grave. The Baker Street Family was back together.

Now that Sherlock had returned, Mrs. Hudson had to deal with unexpected visitors dropping in. After Lestrade and Donovan had come by, the news apparently went out that Sherlock was well enough to see people, and thus Mrs. Hudson found herself entertaining various guests.

The Sherlockians came by, of course. Lawrence and Kenneth, in particular, were happy to see her again, and they waxed phyisophical about how great her food was. She made sure to bake some biscuits for them before they left.

A few other people dropped by, too. That young Inspector Hopkins, who helped clear Sherlock's name, came by, as well as that nice young woman Molly. She came with her boyfriend, that American lad named Clarky.

Mrs. Hudson wasn't sure what to make of Clarky. On one hand, he seemed like a nice young man. However, she managed to overhear him making plans with Sherlock to "borrow" some fingers in the name of science.

Also, he went a bit loopy when he saw the orange blanket that Inspector Hopkins had given Sherlock as a get-well gift.

Mrs. Hudson just couldn't understand Clarky's agitation. Ok, so maybe Inspector Hopkins should have made sure that whoever had tailored the blanket made sure that they put an "S" instead of a "T" on it, but it was the thought that counted, right?

Still, the joy of having her boys back was such that she didn't dwell on the American's odd reaction for very long.

And if that wasn't enough, she had gained a new daughter in the form of Mary Morstan, soon-to-be Mary Watson. When it had been just the three of them, Mrs. Hudson sometimes entertained the notion that Sherlock and John were more than just flat mates. She thought that perhaps a romance would blossom.

She was wrong about the romance, but not about the fact that John and Sherlock were not mere flat mates. They were friends. Perhaps one could go so far and say that they were like brothers, like those Duncan boys who worked with the Sherlockians and stayed with her last year to keep the press from hounding her.

With Mary and John, it was obvious those two people were in love. This was fine with Mrs. Hudson, as long as they continued to stay in the flat in the basement.

After all, _someone_ had to help her keep Sherlock in line. Who knows _what_ that boy would do if left to his own devices?

_But then again, Sherlock was hardly alone anymore, was he?_

Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself as she recalled that she also had a new grandchild. After all, if Sherlock was her boy, it only made sense that Sheri was her granddaughter, and _no one_ was going to tell her otherwise!

So her family not only came back together, it practically doubled.

This meant that Mrs. Hudson had a lot to do before the holidays approached.

John was out, taking care of a couple of errands. Mary was at work. Those men that Mycroft had sent to watch over the flat had left two days prior, as the press had finally given up and left. So it was up to Mrs. Hudson to watch over Sherlock until they returned.

She was somewhat relieved that Sherlock was still obeying John's orders. It had been seventeen days since he returned home, poor man, and even though he was no longer confined to his room, Sherlock was still as weak as water and found it difficult to move around.

Perhaps she should take a break and go upstairs to check on him. And maybe make him some tea.

_But just this once._ She was still his landlady, not his maid.

* * *

Her hip hurt a little as she carried the tray up the stairs and onto the landing. The door was slightly ajar, so she didn't have to knock to come in.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called out. "I brought up some tea and biscuits for you." She glanced around the room. Now that her boy had returned, the flat was no longer in the impeciable state it was when John lived there alone. Sherlock's lab equipment was brought back in and set up in the kitchen, no doubt awaiting her boy's return when the opportunity arose to use it again.

That microscope, too, was sitting on the kitchen table, along with a few slides. Once Sherlock was able to walk more than a few steps without falling, he spent a few hours yesterday going over the slides with Sheridan.

It was truly touching to see the normally aloof detective sitting beside his daughter and patiently going over how to spot the difference between two sets of carpet fibers.

Mrs. Hudson could still see them there in her mind's eye. Two identical heads of dark curls, one large and one small, bent over the eye piece of the microscope as Sherlock adjusted the setting while Sheridan hung on his every word.

However, much to Mrs. Hudson's eternal chagrin, there was now _two_ skulls, one on either side of the mantle, staring at her through their empty eye sockets.

_I am going to have to hide those things somewhere! They will scare visitors away!_

Sherlock was not on the couch, where she last saw him, wrapped in a blanket and propped up on several pillows, including the one with the Union Jack flag etched on one side. Setting the tray down, Mrs. Hudson cupped her hands around her mouth so that her voice will carry. "Sherlock Holmes! Where are you?"

No one answered back. Frowning in annoyance, she proceeded to check the rest of the rooms. There was no sign of the lanky detective anywhere.

Mrs. Hudson started to grow concerned._ Where was that infernal boy?_ Surely he didn't leave the flat? It wasn't like there was anywhere to go, and she rather doubted Sherlock would decide to go out and buy milk.

_Unless…_

Frowning, Mrs. Hudson walked over to the hall closet and opened it.

Sherlock's long black coat was missing.

_And that wasn't the only thing missing..._

Frowning in annoyance and concern, Mrs. Hudson limped back down the stairs, so that she could get to her phone to call John to tell him that Sherlock was gone and where she suspected he was heading to.

* * *

The air was cool and brisk with the smell of damp and car exhaust. Nevertheless, the sky above was only partly cloudy, with the sun shining down and the sky a light shade of blue. In short, it was a perfect afternoon.

Sherlock, clad in a pair of black slacks, his trademark purple shirt (though regretably still a little bit too loose), his scarf, and his black Belstaff coat (a new one, as his old one was damaged beyond repair) strolled down the streets of London, intent of reaching the Yard before those idiots succeeded in messing things up further.

Not much had changed since he "died" a year and a half ago. London was still the same as it ever was. Beautiful historic building, modern skyscrapers, dilapidated building, and businesses still existed together, each one filled with the promise of a new, challenging problem to which he could set his mind to. People walked by him (a few of them pausing to stare, wondering why he looked so familiar), each with the potential of being a person in need of assistance, or a cold-blooded villain.

London, with its unending variety, always changing, but always staying the same.

Sherlock frowned.

_Where, exactly, did that leave him?_

He paused to stare at himself in a store window. He may have _looked_ the same; dark hair, alabaster skin, stormy eyes, unsmiling features. Certainly he was thinner, and his face had a few more lines, but overall he hadn't changed much.

If he could delete the memories of the past few years, he could almost fool himself into believing he was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for Scotland Yard. A man who needed and relied on no one. A calculating bastard who enjoyed the thrill of the hunt and blocked out all emotions because they were a liability. A brilliant genius. A machine without feelings.

But Sherlock could not indulge in pointless "what-ifs." He _knew_ he was different. Under the scarf, a fine line, only slightly darker than the rest of his skin, showed the place where he was stabbed, a parting reminder of his game with Moriarty. It would fade over time, of course, but it would never completely go away.

And that was not the only thing altered.

Sherlock had spent the last few years lying to himself. He told people he didn't care.

But it wasn't true. He allowed people to get closer to him.

_John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Sheri._

And now he was no longer invincible. He was beset with worries, fears, and worst of all, _emotions._

What if he could not protect them? What if those close to him got hurt? Should he consider walking away and finding a new line of work, one that poised less risk for them?

Lost in his own thoughts, Sherlock did realize he was being watched.

Until it was too late.

* * *

"You aren't supposed to leave the flat! Uncle John said you couldn't!"

Sherlock sighed.

_Why was he not surprised?_

Despite his irritation, however, he couldn't help the small sense of pride that raced through him. It was _him_, after all, who taught Sheridan how to hide in shadows and observe people at a distance without them knowing. "And what are _you_ doing? Didn't John tell you the same thing?"

Sheridan shrugged. "He said I couldn't leave the flat _alone_! He said you couldn't leave the flat _at all!" _Sheridan reached up to arrange her scarf to where it was more comfortable. "So, are we going to work on my deduction skills, or are we headed to the Yard?"

Sherlock looked down at the expectant girl. "_I'm_ headed to the Yard, which is why you can't come!"

Sheridan's face fell. "_Why not?_ I helped you with Moriarty! And that's far more dangerous than anything at the Yard!"

Sherlock tried to think of an appropriate response. "Because the Department of Protective Services may get upset about a child looking at crime scene photos!"

Sheridan scoffed and folded her arms across her chest. "I saw three men get shot in front of me when I was four! If I'm not traumatized by now, then I doubt a few crime scene photos are going to do it!"

Sherlock frowned.

_Of course, how easy it was to forget!_

Sheridan had scars from her own encounters with Moriarty too. Hers were just not visible. And yet she was a survivor. She refused to let any hardship destroy her.

"And what if the Department doesn't see it that way?" Sherlock asked.

"Then Uncle Mycroft will deal with it!" Sheridan reasoned, smiling sweetly.

Sherlock frowned. "Stop doing that!"

Sheridan smiled wider. "Stop doing _what_, Dad?"

Sherlock looked at his daughter sternly. "You know_ very well_ what you are doing! Now go back home! I'll be back in an hour."

"You would send me, a _little girl_, to go home _on her own?_" Sheridan asked, doing her best to look pathetic. Her blue-grey eyes stared mournfully up, and her bottom lip trembled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

_What's the point?_ He wasn't going to win this particular battle.

And besides, it was probably time to teach Sheridan the basics on how to break into Scotland Yard without anyone knowing.

"Oh, very well! You may accompany me to the Yard. But you are still not allowed to investigate cases on your own yet! Any cases you look at must first be approved by me. Do you understand?"

Sheridan nodded eagerly, her face aglow with excitement.

"Good! Now come along. Since you have shown improvement in your ability to blend in and go unnoticed, we will test that on the idiots at the Yard…"

* * *

Lestrade should have known this was going to be one of those days.

All the signs were there. His alarm clock didn't go off, so he overslept. He arrived to work late, only for Donovan to share the news that they had three new priority cases.

It was getting closer to the holidays, yet the criminal population of London seemed to have no concept of "Peace on Earth and Good Will Towards Men." Two murders this week, and one missing child case just this morning.

_So soon after the Slasher, too._ _Lovely way to spend the afternoon_, Lestrade thought sarcastically. "Ok, Anderson. What have we got so far?"

Anderson paused, looking back at his colleague. "Three bodies found in a deserted second storied building at South Kingston. Preliminary findings show no obvious trauma to any of the victims. There are no wounds or broken bones. Toxicology tests have not come back yet."

Lestrade sighed. "Do we have any preliminary reports?"

Donovan nodded. "I put it on your desk, Greg. Along with the files for the missing child case."

Clarky looked less than enthused. "I take it we are going to be here until late?"

"I'm afraid so, Clarky." Hopkins replied.

Clarky nodded his head ruefully. "And I had _big_ plans for tonight!"

Anderson barked out a laugh. "_What?_ Going to the morgue at Bart's?"

Clarky crossed his arms in front of his chest. Suddenly, he smirked. "With the beautiful Molly, goddess of the dead? Uh, yeah!" Clarky said, smiling broadly. "If I was dead, _she_ would be the one I want to do my autopsy!"

Lestrade groaned, rubbing his head. "And, with that, I have officially lost my appitite! Clarky, why did you have to go and do that for? I didn't eat anything since breakfast this morning!"

Clarky shrugged. "Shaggy here started it!" He said, pointing at Anderson.

"_Stop calling me Shaggy!_" Anderson growled. "I look _nothing_ like Shaggy!"

"Yes you do, mate!" Hopkins smirked. He looked at Donovan. "How about the other case?"

Donovan shrugged. "Roger Harold, found in his bedroom, hanging from a rope hung from the ceiling fan."

Lestrade nodded. "Well, we might as well get started. First priority is the missing child case. Then we will go through the other two. So give me a few minutes to read over the files, and then all of you come to my office in about fifteen minutes."

Clarky looked mournful. "Why can't criminals be more considerate about other people's schedules?"

"What would you have them do, Clarky? Have all the thieves in London contact their victims and let them know when they plan on burglarizing their homes, so they can arrange to be away, and maybe leave the door unlocked for them?" Hopkins asked sarcastically.

"No need to be snarky, Stanley!" Clarky grumbled.

Lestrade shook his head wearily as he made his way to the protective confines of his office. The idea of presiding over his bickering underlings was about as unappealing as the time he was once stuck in an elevator with Sherlock and Anderson.

_It's amazing I got out with my sanity! _

Smirking at the memory, he opened his door and stepped into his office.

* * *

"Ah, Lestrade! Come in! I see you overslept this morning, and arrived late to work. How careless of you!"

Lestrade froze at the entrance of his door, mouth hung open in shock. "_Sherlock! _ What are you doing here?! You are supposed to be…"

Sherlock chuckled as he viewed Lestrade's reaction. "It has been several weeks since news of my survival has circulated in the news, Lestrade!"

"Should we let Greg have the couch so he can take a nap, Dad? He looks really tired and stressed." Sheridan asked her father. "He didn't shave this morning, and he has a stain on his shirt where he spilled coffee in his hurry to arrive."

Lestrade gaped at the sight of the consulting detective and his daughter sitting on his couch, Sherlock with a case file, and Sheridan holding some crime scene photos. "You _know_ what I mean, Sherlock! John said you are not cleared to work until Janaury! And why is Sheri with you?"

"She followed me." Sherlock muttered, turning his eyes back to his file.

"Then the same logic applies! Why would your daughter follow you to the Met? Especially when you aren't not supposed to be up and about yet?" Lestrade asked, looking bewildered.

"Because I was bored." Sherlock muttered. "I have been stuck in the flat for a month! I could feel my mind start to decay from the inactivity."

Lestrade groaned as he walked past the two visitors and sat back behind his desk. "John is going to _kill_ me!"

"Uncle John won't kill you, Greg! He may kill _Dad_, though!" Sheridan pointed out.

"And what about you, Sheri?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm too young! And I'm a girl! Uncle John won't kill _me!_" Sheridan stated smugly.

Lestrade groaned again. "You know, Sherlock, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you brought Sheridan with you because you knew that if I caught you here alone, I would have locked you up until John came to get you!"

Sheridan giggled. "Why do the Yarders have an obsession with locking you up, Dad?" Sheridan asked, looking at her father curiously.

"Because they are idiots!" Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

At that moment, the office to Lestrade's office opened.

"Hey Greg! Hopkins had an idea about…" Donovan stopped short at the sight of Sherlock and Sheridan. "What are you two doing here?" Her voice, surprisingly, carried no hint of rancor.

Behind her, Anderson, who had followed her in, stopped to gape wordlessly at the trespassing pair.

"Dad was teaching me how to break into Scotland Yard without being caught!" Sheridan said proudly. "Then we saw the files on Greg's desk…"

"And my day officially went from bad to worse!" Lestrade muttered sadly.

Anderson and Donovan simultaneously rolled their eyes with a mixture of annoyance and sympathy. "And here I thought we were going to have a normal afternoon for once!" Anderson muttered.

"_Normal is boring!"_ Sherlock and Sheridan responded simultaneuously as they continued to pour over the case file.

Anderson rubbed his temple. "I thought the Freak wasn't cleared to be back until January!"

"He isn't!" Donovan groaned. "John was quite clear about _that!_"

Lestrade beat his head against the edge of his desk. "John is going to _kill_ us!"

"You _do_ know I can hear you." Sherlock said serenely from his seat on the sofa as he quietly thumbed through the case file. He then handed the file to his daughter. "Ok, Sheri, this file is about a missing girl. Look over it and tell me who took her!"

"Sherlock, you can't expect an _eight year old_ to be solving cases! And if you heard me, then you also heard John tell you that you shouldn't be working on cases yet!" Lestrade protested, looking up to glare at the consulting detective. "Bloody hell, do you _want _John to kill us all?!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but remained silent.

The door to Lestrade's office opened again. "_Greg!_ Hopkins just got a call…" Clarky started to say, then spied the detective on the couch. "_Lucky!_"

Without warning, the tall American strode across the room and grabbed Sherlock to embrace him. Sherlock froze, looking shocked by the American's exuberance, while Anderson and Donovan smirked at his discomfort.

"_Damn_, Lucky! It's great to see you! I thought you weren't supposed to be back for another few weeks!"

"And I won't be if you keep squeezing my ribs!" Sherlock hissed stoically.

"_Oops!"_ Clarky said, abruptly letting Sherlock go, allowing him to collapse back on the sofa. "Sorry about that!"

"It's fine!" Sherlock said, wincing.

"You see what I mean, Sherlock?" Lestade pointed out. "Now go home! _Now!_"

"The child is with her father." Sheridan said quietly, setting aside the case file of the girl who went missing the night before.

The Yarders turned to stare at Sheridan in astonishment. "How do you know that?" Hopkins said. "Her parents reported her missing!"

"True, but I think that if you will talk to Mrs. Strauss alone, you will find that Mr. Strauss is not her real father." Sheridan replied.

Sherlock glanced over the file and gave an approving nod at Sheridan. "Correct."

"How do you figure, Lucky?" Clarky asked, curious.

Sherlock held up a picture of the missing girl and a crime scene photo. "See the yellow patches around the girl's eyes? Do you observe the cholestrole medication bottles on the child's nightstand? She suffers from familial hypercholesterolemia."

Lucky frowned in concentration. "But that means…_oh! I get it!_ So Mrs. Strauss has been a _very_ bad girl!"

"_Oi!_ Body Farm people! _Explain!"_ Hopkins protested.

Clarky grinned. "Familial hypercholesterolemia is a genetic disease that is characterized by the body making excessive amounts of low-density lipoprotein, or 'bad cholestrole.' But it is passed directly from parent to child!"

"_So?"_ Hopkins replied.

"Well, the child had to have gotten it from one of her parents! And since neither of the Strauss parents have it…"

"Then how did the girl get it!?" Hopkins realized. "_Of course!_ So we need to bring in Mrs. Strauss for a follow-up interview."

Lestrade nodded. "Just keep her separated from Mr. Strauss when you ask her."

Sherlock groaned and threw his head on the back of the couch. "I'm _bored!"_

"Well, why don't you try this one?" Clarky said, handing another file to Sherlock. "Three bodies found in a deserted building. No obvious injuries, no sign of struggle, no evidence any of the bodies were moved. We know they died of poisoning, but we can't figure out what yet until the tox screens come back!"

Sherlock nodded as he took the file.

"Clarky, don't _encourage_ him!" Lestrade grimanced.

"Why not?" Clarky asked.

"Because I actually want to live and see the New Year without being massacred by one aforementioned Army Doctor, _that's why!"_ Lestrade yelled. "Now take him home right now before John finds out!"

"And _how_ exactly do I get him to stay?" Clarky asked. "Do I handcuff him to the radiator and leave some water out for him?"

Lestrade groaned and slumped back into his chair, but he didn't dispute Clarky's argument.

The door to Lestrade's office opened, and Dimmock entered, looking worried.

"Uh, Greg…"

"What is it, Charlie?" Lestrade mumbled.

"John called. He knows Sherlock's here. He's on his way."

Lestrade nodded weakly. "Thanks, Charlie." Dimmock nodded and left the office.

When he closed the door, Lestrade groaned and began to beat his head on the edge of his desk again. "We are going to _die_, aren't we?!"

"Lestrade, for the last time, John is not a _homicidal lunatic!_ There is no need to get upset." Sherlock said, not even bothering to look up from the file. "Your paranoia is eclipsed only by Clarky's inate desire to spend the evening with Molly tonight."

"_Lucky!_" Clarky protested.

"So you do have a _date_ with Molly tonight!" Hopkins declared triumphantly, looking at Clarky, who was blushing furiously.

"Correction, Clarky is going to propose." Sherlock explained. "Oh, and by the way, this case is not murder. It is a suicide pact, in which the fourth member decided not to go through with it, and thus fled the scene, taking the poison with her. Look for a university student who hung out with the victims and majors in veternary science, and you will find I am correct."

"_Wait!_ Hold on!" Hopkins grinned. "Clarky, is it true? Are you going to _propose?_"

Sherlock frowned. "I just solved a case, and all you are interested in is Clarky's relationship with Molly? How juvenile!"

"How do you know he is going to propose?" Donovan asked, curiosity winning out.

"Because he has a small box in his coat pocket! I felt it when he tried to_ suffocate _me earlier! Judging from its size, it probably contains jewelry, which I deduce is an engagement ring." Sherlock growled, looking annoyed.

"But how do you know it's an engagement ring?" Anderson asked. "Maybe it's something else, like a pair of earrings!"

Sherlock groaned. "I don't know _how_ you all survived this last year without me! No wonder the crime rate in London went up! Anderson, _look_ at Clarky! He is wearing the same cologne he only uses for special events, and he is wearing trousers that are neatly pressed. Not jeans. And Clarky always wears jeans to work in, because he doesn't want his good clothes ruined at crime scenes!"

"_Oh!_" Donovan said. "Well, congradulations, Clarky!"

"She hasn't said _'yes'_ yet!" Clarky shot back.

"She will!" Sheridan said confidently. "She _likes_ you!"

Sherlock nodded in agreement before he turned to Lestrade. "Do you have anything else?"

Lestrade sighed. "Donovan, could you get the Harold file? Might as well use our time wisely, since it will likely run out once John gets here."

Donovan nodded as she walked out of the office.

Anderson grinned at Clarky. "So, the gun-carrying redneck is going to settle down?"

Clarky glared at Anderson, but kept his mouth shut.

Stan smirked. "Are you going to get _married_ at the morgue? Because you know you need to do it in the presence of witnesses, and _dead bodies_ don't count as witnesses!"

Lestrade looked towards Sherlock, who was still sitting on the couch. "I never thought I would be saying this, but I _actually_ found people that are more annoying than you!"

Sherlock smirked. "So you missed me, especially after dealing with the combined idioticies of Anderson, Clarky, and Hopkins!"

_"Oi!"_ Anderson growled.

Donovan chose that moment to enter the office.

And she didn't enter alone.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Greg." John greeted Lestrade politely. His calm voice belied the fact that some heads were about to roll. "How are you today?"

Lestrade pointed over to Sherlock, who hadn't moved an inch from the couch. "It wasn't my fault, John! _He_ left the flat on his own! And _she_ followed him! I didn't call either of them!"

"Don't worry about it, Greg. Only one person in this room is in trouble." John said ominously, turning to glare at Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked as he looked at his daughter. "Did you hear that, Sheri? You're in trouble!"

The rest of the adults in the room groaned in usion.

"I stand corrected. _Two_ people are in trouble!" John muttered under his breath.

"I think he means you too, Dad." Sheridan mumbled, looking properly abashed.

"_Me?_ What did I do?" Sherlock protested.

"_Up! _ Now!" John ordered, reverting to his military voice. Sheridan jumped up quickly. Sherlock was a little slower.

John stared them both down. "Do you two have _any_ idea how worried Mrs. Hudson has been? And you two decide to go galvanizing around London?!"

Sheridan chewed on her lip nervously while Sherlock kept his expression impassive. "We just wanted to help the Yarders get out early! And Clarky is supposed to propose to Molly tonight!" Sheridan said, looking up hopefully at John.

John looked back at Clarky, whose face was now a bright crimson. "Is this _true_, Clarky?"

Clarky made a noise that was a cross between a groan and a cough. "_Oh, hell!_ By the time I ask her, half of London will know anyway!" Clarky complained.

"And he can't leave early unless they finish up with their priority cases." Sheridan added helpfully.

John grinned despite himself. He looked over at the rest of the Yarders. "How many more priority cases do you guys have?"

"We just got one left. A murder that was disguised as a suicide." Donovan answered, holding up the case file.

John rolled his eyes in exasperation. He turned to glare at the two delinquents. "_One more case!_ You have fifteen minutes!"

Sherlock smirked in victory and grabbed the file out of Donovan's hand before flopping back on the couch. "You know, if I wasn't driven to boredom, then this would not be necessary."

"_Shut it_, Sherlock!" John muttered angrily. "You are already in trouble! You know very well you aren't allowed to leave the flat yet! What if you passed out in the street, and Sheri didn't know what to do?"

Sherlock didn't respond, yet his posture betrayed a hint of embarrassment.

"And what about _you_, Sheri?" John said, looking back towards Sherlock's partner in crime. "Do you have _any_ idea how much you worried Mrs. Hudson?"

Sheridan had the grace to look properly chastianed. "Sorry, Uncle John."

"Who determined this case was a murder?" Sherlock asked abruptly, holding up the case file.

"I did." Anderson admitted hesistantly. "When I did the measurements, the height was too high, even with the chair we found at the scene. I thought it looked staged."

"Your deductive abilities, miniscule as they are, have shown improvement." Sherlock said reluctantly.

Anderson frowned. "Did he just give me a compliment, or insulted me?"

Sherlock continued his analysis before Anderson could figure it out. "Your killer is someone who works as a gardener. The victim's gardener, actually. The rope has minute traces of black, organic-based dirt on it. Particularly around the noose. But someone helped him, as you didn't find dirt anywhere else, suggesting someone cleaned up the crime scene after the gardener left. Who reported the body?"

"The victim's wife." Donovan said. "She was pretty upset when we talked to her."

"Then she's lying. I suggest you locate where she keeps her vacuum cleaner. Once you find the same traces of dirt that she vacuumed up from the carpet, then you should have her as an accessory, and she should give you the evidence you need against her lover." Sherlock answered, then threw his head back on the couch. "Well, that was incredibly simple! Maybe Gregson and Dimmock have a burglary case that Sheridan can work on…"

"No, no, and for a final time, _no!_" John yelled, sounding remarkably like a drill sergeant. "Now, both of you, get up! We are going straight back to the flat! No arguments!"

"You're no fun, Uncle John!" Sheri pouted.

"I'll be less fun if you don't do as I say! Now _march!_" John ordered.

Clarky gave the three a mock military salute as they walked by, while Donovan used her hand to hide the amused grin on her face.

"John! Wait a moment!" Lestrade called from his desk.

John turned around at the doorway. "What?"

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I was just wondering…are you planning to join up with the Yard? Be another consultant?"

John smirked. "You are asking if I'll be around to keep Sherlock in line, am I right?"

Lestrade had the grace to look embarrassed. "I didn't mean it like _that!_"

"I'll be here." John answered. "If I don't, then Sherlock here will get himself injured or killed again! Or bring Sheri with him to crime scenes!"

"_Oh, happy day!_ The Freak and Freak Spawn!" Anderson muttered.

"_Anderson!_" Hopkins protested.

"It's ok, Stan!" Sheridan said, smiling. "I love being a freak! Freaks are people who can do things no one else can do! So Anderson can call me _Freak Spawn_ if he wants to! I like it when he does! I just hope he doesn't mind when I call him _Shaggy!_"

Grinning, Sheridan skipped out of the room, leaving many dumbfounded adults in her wake.

Sherlock groaned and shook her head. "Sheridan, don't bother explaining things to the _primate!_ You could draw it in _crayon_, and he _still_ wouldn't be able to understand you!"

Clarky and Hopkins laughed as Sherlock followed Sheridan out the door. "So does this mean I need to order some child-sized gloves for Sheri?" Clarky snickered, looking towards John.

"I hope not!" John said, cringing at the thought. "Though if she is anything like Sherlock, she will find a way to follow us! Even _Mycroft_ is having a hard time keeping tabs on her!"

"She could come in handy, though! I mean, she's good with weapons…" Clarky said.

"_NO!_" Lestrade shouted. "No children at crime scenes! _Period!_ End of story!"

"_Sure,_ Greg!" Clarky laughed. "Why don't you go and tell the little girl that? See what happens?"

Lestrade glared at Clarky. "Don't you have a _proposal_ to plan for?"

Clarky blushed. "Oh! _Right!_"

John smirked at Clarky's obvious discomfort. While corpses and shoot-outs failed to sway the American overmuch, the idea of proposing seemed to have him slightly on edge. "Clarky, take a couple of deep breaths, alright! You look like you are going to pass out."

Clarky grinned shakely but inhaled and exhaled deeply. "Do you have a few moments to give me some pointers, John? I mean, you proposed to Mary a few months ago. How did you handle it?"

* * *

A few minutes later, John was just finishing up giving Clarky tips for the big moment when Dimmock stuck his head back in the office door. "Uh, Greg?"

"_Now what?_" Lestrade groaned.

"I think you need to get out here! There's been an incident! Sherlock's arguing with Porter. You know, the guy who got transferred to us? He said something about Sheridan being Morairty's niece, and was rather rude to her. Sherlock went ballistic and started insulting him by deducing that he is sleeping with prostitutes and is trying to get in his desk to get the proof…"

A loud scream emanated somewhere behind Dimmock.

"_And_ it appears I am too late!" Dimmock noted, closing his eyes.

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled as he hurried out the door, desperate to forestall Sherlock's impending arrest.

"Sounds like everything is back to normal around here!" Donovan noted calmly as she replaced the files on Lestrade's desk.

"And what is 'normal,' Sally?" Lestrade complained.

"Well, the Freak's back, we're solving cases, he's insulting us, and he's already back to breaking the law! I say things are back to normal!" Donovan replied, looking satisfied with herself.

"If this is _normal_, then I can't wait for something _exciting_ to happen!" Clarky remarked.

"GREG!" Dimmock yelled, rushing back to the door.

"Dimmock, are you _trying_ to be the harbringer of doom or what?! Don't you know what happens to messengers?" Clarky joked. "Are you _asking_ for Greg here to shoot you?"

"But it's an _emergency!_ John just punched Porter in the face!" Dimmock gasped out.

The Yarders stood, immobile from shock.

"Let me guess! Porter _insulted_ Sherlock, didn't he?" Lestrade finally said.

"It doesn't take a Holmes to deduce _that_ one, Greg!" Hopkins noted.

"Well, what am I doing in here when I could be filming this stuff!?" Clarky exclaimed, fishing out his phone from his trouser pocket. "The guys back home would _love_ to see this!"

"You mean your friends back in Knoxville are not enthralled watching corpses rot?" Hopkins shot back.

"Shut it, Hopkins!" Clarky replied evenly. "Or Porter won't be the only one nursing a sore face!"

Lestrade slowly rose from his chair. "Dare I ask what _Sheridan_ is doing?"

"Last I saw of her, she was standing on Bradstreet's desk, cheering John on!" Dimmock replied.

"Uh, Greg…" Anderson stuttered. "Doesn't Bradstreet always keep a spare gun in his desk?"

Lestrade rubbed his temples as he fought off an impending headache.

_Now was the time to prove why he was promoted to the position of Detective Inspector in the first place._

"_Clarky_, call Mrs. Hudson and inform her that her tenants are here! I hate for that poor lady to worry any more than what she has to on a daily basis! _Anderson_, go and run some tests on any vacuums that may have been seized as evidence in the Harold case! _Hopkins_, call Mrs. Strauss and tell her we need her to come to the station for some follow-up questions about her missing daughter! We'll deal with her when she gets here! And _Donovan_, run a cross-check for any students that may have come into contact with our three suicides! Cross reference any of them that may have access to a veterinarian office or medications!"

"And what are _you_ going to do, Greg?" Hopkins asks, curious.

"_I'm_ going to call Mycroft and tell him to be prepared to come down here to post Sherlock's and John's bail! I'm also going to find a few 'child friendly' cases for Sheri to work on so she doesn't get bored waiting here and decides to get a gun to break them out of holding!" Lestrade answered wearily.

"_Good idea!_ I'll see if I can find anything in the cold case department!" Dimmock replied, leaving the doorway.

"And _now_ we can safely say that things are back to normal!" Donovan noted.

Various ringtones suddenly went off, and all the Yarders began fumbling for their phones. When each one finally retrieved his or her cell, they found that they had each just received a text.

**To: Greg Lestrade, Stanley Hopkins, Sally Donovan, Silvia Anderson, Edward Clarkson**

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Re: Back to normal?**

_Wrong! SH_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Well, that's it! That's the first fan fiction story I have ever published!

Before I continue, I want to thank the following:

To all of you who followed my story-**aindarayshin, Alex455, Aria Grey, Artemisa-arcanum, bbybyrd, bunies, chaoticmom, dianaj2w, Dreamingmydaysaway, eeekabee, Griffing07, Lady Iapetus Roving Wanderer, Missy the Least, monkeymail, .Namikaze, Rawiya, Rouge Singer, scifigurl720, Scottish Bluebell, silky0670, Space Symphony, StArBarD, StrongerThanThat, SWBloodwolf, **and** TheGirlWithTheOnyxRose.**

To all of you who favorited this story-**aindarayshin, chaoticmom, dark-phile-slayin-angel, eeekabee, Imagination Queen, Jesse Bryans, Lady Iapetus Roving Wanderer, monkeymail, MoonlitIvy, MsSherlocked, .Namikaze, Rawiya, SaFlame, Scottish Bluebell, SillyMongoose, **and** StrongerThanThat.**

To all of those who posted a review for this story-**ravenoak21, TravelingMan, Scottish Bluebell, Feyfangirl, chaoticmom, bbybyrd, MoonLitIvy, nioha, unnamed guest-(chapter 2), crazy-about-books, marye, MsSherlocked, Missy the Least, StrongerThanThat, SillyMongoose, Anon, Shizhika, TheGirlWithTheOnyxRose, **and** monkeymail.**

And finally to all of those nameless individuals who took a second to click on "The Meaning of Sacrifice" and paused to read part or all of the story (Mycroft wouldn't release your names to me! Sorry!)

To all of you, I give my most sincere thanks. It took me longer to decide to post a chapter than it did to write the entire story, so I thank you all for making me feel like I can actually write something interesting. It means so much to me!

Now that I finished my tale, I am debating my next project. I may do a series of one-shots that will answer some of the lingering questions left over from the story. (What was John's and Sherlock's first actual case back? Where did Danielle actually have her body buried after she died? Will Danielle's organization continue? What happens at John's and Mary's wedding? Will Molly say yes to Clarky? Will Mycroft get in trouble again? Will Chase continue to wreck havoc?). If there is enough interest, I may do it. Or I could post a new story altogether, with new characters, and a new take on the "Sherlock" universe. I don't know yet, but any feedback is always welcomed.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own "Sherlock." But I _do_ own the PDAs!

**OC Chase Douglas**-PDAs?

**Peaceful Defender**-My special **"Peaceful Defender Awards!" ** Ok, first category! To the **Reviewer Who Makes the Best Chinese Food**…Missy the Least!

**Mycroft Holmes**-Ah, yes. The nice young woman who filled in for you when you were indisposed after being concussed after a game of pool! She was kind enough to overlook Mr. Douglas's inane ramblings.

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Hey!_ No fair, DMP!

**Peaceful Defender**-To the **Reader with the Best Left Hook**…ravenoak21!

**John Watson**-The fan fiction girl who popped Moriarty on in Chapter 10?

**Peaceful Defender**-Yep. Also, the award for **Best Spying Operation** goes to Missy the Least, MoonlitIvy, ravenoak21, chaoticmom, and MsSherlocked, because they managed to out-smart a world famous evil mastermind and got away unscathed in "Chapter 10-Return of the Darkness." Maybe _someone_ should be paying attention to that. (cough) _Mycroft!_ (cough).

**Mycroft Holmes**-Let's not start with that again!

**Peaceful Defender**-To **Best Supporting Character**, the award goes to Fan Fiction, because they knew what was going on from the beginning and helped to set the record straight!

**OC Chase Douglas**-Go Fan Fiction! _We rule!_

**Peaceful Defender**-My reward for **Most Favorite OC** goes to Clarky!

**OC Clarky**-Really? _Wow! _

**Stanley Hopkins**-Good job, redneck! Although I don't know why! You are kind of creepy! With the Body Farm and everything! As I said before, you are one certifiable nutter! But still, good job!

**OC Clarky**-Thanks! _I think._

**Peaceful Defender**-My reward for **Most Destructive Character** goes to Chase!

**OC Chase Douglas** (grabs award and gets behind podium)-_OMG! OMG! OMG!_ This is so unexpected! I didn't even have a speech prepared! (quietly pulls out a sheet of paper) But seriously, thanks to my fellow Sherlockians, to Fan Fiction, to the DMP, who took a chance on me and employed me, even after my unfortunate incarceration, and to all of those who produce, make, and sale coffee every day! Thank you! (wipes away tears)

**James Moriarty** (as a ghost)-_No fair!_ I demand a recount!

**Mycroft Holmes** (looks to Not-Anthea)-Dear, please call the nearest paranormal experts to deal with that…_abomination._

**Not-Anthea**-Right away, Sir. (starts to type on her Black Berry).

**OC Chase Douglas**-Oh, Anthea-my-goddess! Tell them we need an old priest and a young priest! And if we can't get them, then _who are we going to call?_ _Ghostbusters!_

**Peaceful Defender**-Everyone, for the love of all that is holy, _stop giving Chase coffee!_ Now he's quoting the "Exorcise" and "Ghostbusters!"

**James Moriarty**-I hate you all! And Peaceful Defender, _you will pay!_ (disappears)

**John Watson**-Well, that was…_unexpected._

**Sherlock Holmes **(rolls his eyes)-_Why_ does he keep coming back?

**Peaceful Defender**-I wish I knew! And that's an empty threat! He already stole my underwear! What _else_ can he do? Anyway, award for the **Best Birthday Gift**, to Sherlock Holmes!

**Martha Hudson**-Sherlock! That was real sweet of you, my boy! It must have been a good present, for Peaceful Defender to give you an award for it! Any chance you will give any of us the same present?

**Sherlock Holmes** (groans and tries to slouch farther into his chair so that he can hide) I _doubt_ it!

**Peaceful Defender** (giggles)-I doubt you would want what I got, Mrs. Hudson. My gift was…_personalized. _ Just for me. But he's a consulting detective, so I'm sure he will figure out what you would all want in time for your birthdays! Anyway, **Award For Best Foot In The Mouth**…Sally Donovan!

**Sally Donovan**-For accusing Sherlock in the first place?

**Peaceful Defender**-No! For what you said in the Character Commentary at the end of "Chapter 18-The Secret." On how Sheridan's father must be a wonderful human being, and he has the parenting thing down, and that he should teach a class on it!

**Sally Donovan** (blushing)-OH!

**Sherlock Holmes** (looks over at Sally Donovan in shock)-_You did!?_

**Sally Donovan** (nods, embarrassed)-I, may have…said something to that effect.

**Peaceful Defender**-For the award for **Most Inappropriate Comment**…

**Silvia Anderson**-_Fine!_ I'm _sorry_ about saying that Sherlock should be sterilized! _There! Are you happy now!?_

**Sherlock Holmes** (eye twitches)-_WHAT? What did you say!?_

**John Watson**-You _don't_ want to know, Sherlock. Trust me!

**Sherlock Holmes**-I should have stayed dead! It was _safer_ for me! First you, Mycroft, and Irene threaten to have me subjected to a public whipping, and now this!?

**Peaceful Defender**-Breathe, Sherlock! If anyone tries to hurt you, I guarantee that a legion of _fan girls_ will come and stop them. And finally, for **Most Suffering Inflicted on a Character Award,** Mycroft Holmes!

**OC Chase Douglas** (applauds loudly) YAH! That's my boss! _GO DMP!_

**Mycroft Holmes**-I would have thought that Sherlock or John were more deserving of that award.

**Peaceful Defender**-It was close, but you won by virtue of your car being bombed and having to deal with Chase all the time.

**OC Chase Douglas**-So…the DMP won because of _me!?_

**Peaceful Defender**-You were a big part of it!

**OC Chase Douglas**-_Whoo hoo!_ Do you hear that, DMP? With me at your side, you are _invincible!_ _I'll never leave you!_

**Mycroft Holmes** (sighes in defeat while simultaneously glares at Peaceful Defender)

**Sherlock Holmes** (grinning)-Any chance of us reading "_The Further Adventures of Mycroft Holmes and Chase Douglas_"? Now _that_ is a story I would condescend to read.

**Mycroft Holmes**-Watch it, Sherly!

**John Watson** (giggling)-Or what? Are you going to tell _Mummy?_

**Peaceful Defender**-Well, that's _officially_ the end! Thank you everyone!

**(THE END)**


End file.
